


The More Loving One

by red0aktree



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Depression, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, Little's cottage in the countryside, M/M, Nightmares, POV shift, Past Character Death, Post-Canon Fix-It, Recovery, Slow Burn, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, but really its like all fluff, mentions of illness, past trauma, the tags make this seem dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29441871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red0aktree/pseuds/red0aktree
Summary: After a miraculous rescue from the Arctic, Edward Little lives a quiet life in his lakehouse in the countryside. Thomas Jopson lives a busy life in the heart of London.A reunion, an invitation, a prolonged stay in the countryside. Two people learning how to heal and find happiness together.Obligatory Little has a cottage in the country and doesn't know how to tell Jopson he wants him to stay forever fic.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Edward Little
Comments: 18
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhh hello Terror fandom, y'all have gripped me and won't let me go so I had to write this fic. 
> 
> Endless thanks to my partner in crime [walterfairholmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/walterfairholmes)
> 
> Without them, none of this would have happened.

> _ Looking up at the stars, I know quite well _
> 
> _ That, for all they care, I can go to hell, _
> 
> _ But on earth indifference is the least _
> 
> _ We have to dread from man or beast. _
> 
> _ How should we like it were stars to burn _
> 
> _ With a passion for us we could not return? _
> 
> _ If equal affection cannot be, _
> 
> _ Let the more loving one be me. _
> 
> _ The More Loving One - W. H. Auden _

* * *

The Little family owned a lakehouse just outside Brighton. It was modest, for the Little family. Half a dozen bedrooms, a den, a library. Growing up with seven siblings, visiting the lakehouse was a rather cramped affair. There was always someone bumping elbows with you in the hallways, somebody using the bathroom when you wanted to brush your teeth, someone to share a bedroom with. 

The same was not so anymore. It was rather empty these days. 

Edward lived there alone. Well, not so alone, he had a dog named Lysander and a cat named Cicero. Awful names for pets in Edward’s opinion. He hadn’t named them, his sister had. She’d always been fond of Shakespeare. She’d gotten the pets while Edward was away at sea. When he returned to Europe and took the family lakehouse as his home, Beatrice had dropped them off and said, “The new townhouse in London is much too small to have pets around, but you’ll have space aplenty for them here.” 

Edward sometimes wondered if she’d only brought them because she didn’t want him to be alone so often. 

Beatrice visited the most often of all his siblings. Her and her family would turn up on the doorstep unexpected and stay the weekend, or the week, or the month. Sometimes his mother came, too. Or else his brothers. He never knew they were coming until they arrived on the doorstep. 

He supposed they must have sent letters. But Edward didn’t read letters. He didn’t write anyone. It had been a year since he returned from his voyage, and Edward was quite hoping everyone had forgotten about him by now. It had been a dreadful thing to see his name in the newspapers, to know his distant relatives and old friends were writing to him and asking if it all really happened, how he had survived, what wounds he would like to reopen for their own entertainment value. 

It was better, at the lakehouse. It was far enough away that nobody but his most determined family members dropped by on a whim. It was quiet there. The weather was good, and it never snowed. That was all the better, since Edward’s fingers had never quite healed from the Arctic. They still ached in the cold. He was lucky, though. Others got out far worse than he did. 

It was a simple life, in the lakehouse. Edward dismissed most of the staff, keeping on only little old Mrs. Hathaway. Edward wasn’t sure he could have dismissed her if he tried. She would have just said, “As you wish, sir,” and then turned up the following day anyway and put a pot of tea on the stove for him. It was all the better, anyway. Edward didn’t like going to town, and was perfectly happy with her doing all the shopping. She cooked meals for him, but Edward hardly ate on a schedule. When the hunger pangs became too much, he’d pick through the kitchen and find whatever scraps she’d left for him in the icebox or set to warm on the stove. 

Mostly, Edward slept. When he wasn’t sleeping, he smoked his pipe in the den. Edward was halfway certain he would die in that very armchair, pipe in his hand, and no one would notice or care. The thought didn’t bother him one bit. 

The only letters Edward couldn’t ignore were from the Admiralty. 

There was to be a ceremony, in London, in a months time. Edward was expected to attend, expected to dress in full uniform, expected to put on his Lieutenant’s face and shake hands and swap stories. The thought left an awful taste in his mouth. 

But, Edward was nothing if not a fool for orders. He dug out his uniform, had it touched up by the seamstress in town, and boarded a train for London. 

Everything was a whirlwind of color. Edward strode through the grand halls of the banquet room, surrounded by color and noise, the bright shimmer of epaulettes and the rich blue of Navy uniforms. He felt a hand clasp his shoulder and the words, “Ah, Little, how are you, lad?” The voice was Captain Crozier’s. 

“Quite well, sir,” Edward lied. “And you?”

The captain looked very well, indeed. His cheeks were fuller, no longer at risk of starvation. There was color in his face, and his uniform was clean and pressed. 

“As well as one can be, given the circumstances. I expect you’re fairing a bit better than I am, stuck here in the city. Out near Brighton are you? Beautiful country.” 

“Brighton, is it?” That was Fitzjames. He swooped to stand beside Crozier. “Haven’t been since I was a lad. We should visit, Francis. If I remember correctly there was this pub on the highstreet--”

“Ah, Jopson,” Crozier interrupted. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” 

Edward turned, and admitted that Crozier was absolutely right. Jopson looked much better than the last time Edward had seen him. His face was clean shaven, all but his sideburns, neat and tidy like always. His eyes were bright, his high necked uniform perfectly pressed. He smiled at all of them, stretching out a hand to shake Crozier’s first, then Fitjames’s, and finally Edward’s. 

“Wonderful to see you all,” Jopson said. It sounded as though he meant it. Edward envied him for that. 

It wasn’t that he was disappointed to see Jopson here, quite the opposite really. Edward had always had a fondness for the other man. He was kind, attentive to his duties, a crack shot with a rifle and, well, Crozier had said it, hadn’t he? 

_ A sight for sore eyes.  _

There were parts of his appearance that were changed now from the first time they’d met, at Greenhithe. He was missing a tooth, for one, just behind his left canine. The circles under his eyes were darker, there was a weariness to the curve of his mouth. It didn’t matter. He was just as stunning as he’d always been. 

Edward appreciated beauty in all its forms. He would have been a fool not to see it in Jopson. 

“Brighton, were you saying?” Jopson asked, turning toward Edward. “I’ve always wanted to visit.” 

* * *

Lieutenant Little had always had a surly look about him. Even as he turned to Thomas, one eyebrow raised in a question, his mouth was slightly downturned, his head held high so he seemed to look down upon Jopson, even though they were of a height with one another. The look used to make Thomas falter, but not anymore. He’d seen enough of Little’s true nature to know he was not a rude man, didn’t think poorly of Thomas, he just had one of those faces. 

In fact, Thomas had rather come to like that face. 

Thomas had always had a fondness for Lt. Little. He was a good man, who had been asked to undertake an impossible task. They all had, good men and villains alike. Little had bowed to the pressure, had bent and cracked beneath it, but in a way that remained graceful, remained pure of heart. He had never been cruel, had never harbored any ill-will toward those who had wronged him, or indeed, at the world that had wronged him, wronged them all. 

Even out on the shale, Lt. Little had been kind to Thomas. Had clapped him on the shoulder the day Crozier promoted him to Lieutenant, had held Thomas’s hand and told him on no uncertain terms that it was an honor to have him among their ranks. 

He had looked poorly then. Hair too long, eyes shadowed with exhaustion and malnutrition. It was a strange thing to see him look much the same now, though they had been returned for over a year. His whiskers were trimmed, his hair perfectly coifed, but his eyes still looked tired, he still looked altogether too thin and rather ragged. 

Thomas didn’t miss the way he fiddled with the buttons of his coat. The nervous twitch to his shoulders, as though he wanted to turn tail and run. 

“It’s a nice place,” Little said of Brighton. “Visit if you get the chance.” 

Somebody called Crozier’s name, and he nodded to the two of them before turning toward the sound. Fitzjames followed. Thomas smiled at Little and said, “You’re living in the countryside, aren’t you? Or have you dropped off the face of the Earth? It’s only, I’ve written to you twice since we’ve been back, just to see how you were. I must have the address wrong.” 

Little averted his eyes, opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut. Thomas understood very clearly that he didn’t have the wrong address at all. 

“Not meaning to pressure you, sir. I only wrote to the men to see how everyone was faring, and to make certain there was no bad blood between us all. You needn’t respond if you don’t desire to.” 

“I haven’t meant to neglect your letters, Jopson. Only, I’m managing my estate all alone now, and there’s much work to be done. Thank you for writing, I will read them and respond as soon as I’m back home.” 

“Managing the estate alone, sir? Surely you have staff to assist you? Or perhaps a wife?” 

“Nothing of the kind, I’m afraid. I dismissed most of the staff upon my return. Seems foolish to have a house full of them when it’s only me there. It’s not all bad, I quite like the tranquility of the lakehouse.” 

“Ah, tranquility,” Thomas laughed. “Now there’s a word I haven’t known the meaning of since returning. I live here in the city, with my brother and his family. There’s always much noise to be found in a house with children in it.” 

“I suppose you look forward to your next voyage, then?” Little asked, one eyebrow raised. “There’s always quiet to be found at sea.” 

“Just so,” Thomas laughed. “Though I don’t think I’ll be returning anytime soon.” 

Little looked him over, puzzled. 

“Surely you’ll take orders now that you’re a Lieutenant?” 

“A steward, sir. And no, I don’t believe I’ll be getting orders. The Discovery Service has implied that I may be better suited to look for employment elsewhere.” 

“What?” Little spluttered on the word. He looked Thomas over again, as though noticing for the first time he wore his steward’s uniform, and not that of a lieutenant. “I saw you promoted. There is much about that walk that feels like a dream, but that much I recall quite clearly. Surely the captain gave them the documents he signed?”

“Of course, sir. It was not enough. I’ve never sat the examination, and besides, it was all a bit unconventional. Please, there’s no need to take such offense. I’ve quite come to terms with it. Besides, my leg has never fully healed, and my health isn’t what it once was. As much as I wish it weren’t so, I doubt I’ll ever return to sea.” 

Little looked outraged. He hailed a passing waiter and took up a glass of champagne, downing it in one long drink. The motion seemed to give him time to think, for when he finished he took a deep breath, collecting himself. 

“Then the Discovery Service has made a great error. You have the makings of leadership.” 

“Ah, but not the birthright.” Thomas gave a prim smile. “But what of you? You must be a Commander by now?” 

Little shrugged, turned to place his glass on the tray offered to him by a passing waiter. His necktie was askew. Jopson itched to straighten it. Before he could reach for it, Sir George Barrow had stepped in front of him, blocking his view of Little. 

“Lieutenant Little,” the man greeted. “Might I have a word?” 

“Certainly, sir,” Little said. He cast a look toward Thomas as he was pulled away from the crowd into a private audience with Barrow. His look was apologetic. Thomas just smiled, and turned to find Crozier. 

Fitjames was deep into a retelling of loose rigging on a fishing boat he’d once been on as a boy. Crozier stood beside him, rolling his eyes, and Blanky nodded along looking just as bored. Fitzjames waved his hands about, voice loud and boisterous. Thomas found he quite missed the sound of Fitzjames’s grandiose tales, full of words like ‘stupendous’ and ‘inconceivable.’ 

Thomas listened, but his thoughts were still with Lt. Little. His outrage at Thomas’s dismissal from the Discovery Service was touching, if not misplaced. Thomas would be no good at sea anymore. His hands were weak from the frostbite that had ravaged them, three of his fingers on his left hand still numb no matter what he did to them. His bruises healed slower than they ought to, and he could only stay on his feet for a matter of hours before his knee buckled and stiffened. 

Thomas would have liked to return to sea. Not for a voyage of the same scope, perhaps, but something simpler, something full of adventure and excitement nonetheless. Such was not possible, and he’d quite accepted that. He would find work elsewhere once his heath permitted him. He couldn’t tax his brother with his presence for the rest of his life, that was certain. 

His thoughts were interrupted by Little’s reappearance. If Thomas had thought he looked uneasy before, it was nothing to how he appeared now. He planted himself directly in front of Thomas and Captain Crozier, one hand rubbing at the side of his face. 

“Do either of you have a cigarette?” he asked without any greeting or pleasantries. Even Fitzjames stopped his story long enough to exchange a look with Blanky, one eyebrow raised. 

Crozier reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a tin, flipping the lid for Little to help himself. He did so, nodding to Crozier and grumbling, “Cheers,” before turning on his heels and disappearing through the crowd. Thomas watched him elbow his way through the men and disappear onto the balcony. 

“What in God’s green Earth has gotten into him?” Crozier asked with a laugh. 

“Not a clue, sir. He was just asked to a private audience with Sir John Barrow.” 

“Ah,” Crozier said, as if he understood. “Well, that’ll do it.” 

“Do you think someone should go check on him?”

“Better you than me, my boy. Take a few more of these though. He might need them.” 

Thomas took two more cigarettes from the case, then nodded his goodbye to the captain. He followed after Little, stopping beside a table of drinks to collect two glasses of champagne as he went. 

Little was alone on the balcony, his back to Thomas. His shoulders were hunched, and Thomas could see the faint puffs of smoke as he sucked on the cigarette. One elbow was planted on the railing, his gaze trained on the city below. 

Thomas was careful to step harshly against the stone, ensuring his usually light step was loud enough to be heard as he approached. He didn’t want to startle the other man. He stepped up beside Little and placed the glass of champagne and the cigarettes on the stone railing beside Little’s elbow. 

“I thought you could use a drink,” Thomas said. “Though we shouldn’t stay out here long. The award ceremony will begin shortly.” 

“I’m to be honored,” Little said. “At the ceremony.” 

“I thought as much. A medal of honor, sir?”

“I suppose. And a promotion. They want me to command the next Arctic voyage.” 

“Congratulations, sir.” 

“I don’t want it,” Little stubbed out his cigarette. He took up the champagne glass and drank it back just as he had the first, in one long pull, head tipped back, throat exposed. He slammed the empty glass back on the railing with far too much force. Thomas had taken the other glass for himself, but reasoned that perhaps Little needed it more. He slid the glass toward him, and the cigarettes as well. Little lit another. “I don’t want to return to sea.” 

“Then you needn’t, sir.” 

“Needn’t I?” Little laughed, a dark, hollow sound. “They’re going to march me in front of all those other officers, in front of the crew. They’re going to place that damned medal on my neck and ask me to lead the next expedition. How can one be expected to say no to that?” 

“It’s simple, sir. You just say the words,  _ no thank you. _ ” 

“Damn it, Jopson. It isn’t simple in the least. They’ll ask why. What am I to say? I’m too cowardly to return? I was never meant for it, anyhow? They know exactly what they’re doing. With all those eyes on me, I’ll end up saying something I don’t desire, agreeing to it anyhow.” 

Little puffed on the cigarette, one great breath after another. His shoulders were around his ears. He looked like a dog with its hackles raised, poised to nip at the next hand that extended kindness. 

“You needn’t say anything just yet.” 

“Jopson--” 

“If I may, sir. Tell them you are thankful for their honor, but you will need a few days to decide. Tell them there are people in your life you need to consult with before making the final decision. Repeat once more than you are humbled by their consideration, and that you are ever thankful to be a part of the Discovery Service. Write to them in a week, and tell them again that you’re thankful, but you will need to decline the offer.” 

Little turned toward him as he spoke. He watched with dark eyes, cigarette half raised to his lips. He nodded as Thomas spoke, drinking in the words. 

“Remember your pleasantries, but make sure they know you are in charge of your decision. They will clap you on the back and say they look forward to hearing from you. They’ll think you merely mean to inform a wife or a mother of your decision before you make it official. They’ll expect you to say yes, but they can’t do anything about it if you say no.” 

“It sounds so easy when you put it that way,” Little said with a sigh. “Yes, you’re right. That is exactly what I’ll say.” 

“Good.” Thomas smiled. “Now drink this, and square your shoulders, Lieutenant. And here, let me fix this.” 

Thomas reached forward and adjusted Little’s necktie, smoothed his lapels. The balcony door opened and Crozier shouted, “At the ready men, the ceremony is about to begin.” 

With a final nod toward Little, Jopson collected the empty glasses and followed Crozier to the audience chamber. 

True to his words, Little was called just after Crozier and Fitzjames. They were all awarded medals of valour. There were eloquent speeches given, and firm handshakes. Little’s face was a perfect mask, chin raised, lips pressed together, the picture of decorum. 

When the Admiralty offered him command of the next Arctic voyage, it was Thomas’s words that fell from Little’s lips. Just as proper and prim as he had said them on the balcony. When he said, “there are people in my life I need consult with before making a decision,” he looked straight at Thomas. Thomas gave him a smile and a nod. The exchange didn’t go unnoticed by Captain Crozier. 

As the crowd began to disperse and formality dissolved, Crozier found Thomas and said, “A great honor for our dear Lieutenant Little, don’t you think?”

“There has never been a man more deserving,” Thomas agreed. 

“He looked rather better up there than he did before. I suppose your chat on the balcony did him some good?”

“Perhaps it was the fresh air, sir.” 

“Perhaps,” Crozier smirked at him. “I’ll say, I hadn’t realized the two of you were so close.” 

“Passing acquaintances, sir. As much as anyone on the voyage could be.” 

Thomas’s words were undermined by Little pressing through the crowd and coming to join them, looking between Thomas and the captain before saying, “Captain, if I might steal Jopson for a moment?” 

“Certainly, Little. He’s yours.” 

Crozier nodded to the both of them before stepping backward into the crowd. 

“Sir?” Thomas asked, head tipped to one side as he looked at Little. 

“Thank you for that,” Little said. His eyes were shifty. They didn’t meet Thomas’s. “You said you live in the city? I’ll be here for two more days. Might I have another chance to see you? Dinner at the Queen and Crown, perhaps?”

“Ah, that might be outside my price range, sir.” 

“My lodgings, then. I’m staying at my sister’s townhouse on Fifth’s street. She’s away on business. Please say you’ll come?” 

“Certainly, sir. It would be an honor.” 

“Tomorrow at five, then?” 

Little fumbled in his pockets to find something to write with. Thomas offered him a pen (he always carried one in his inside pocket) and Thomas wrote the address on the back of a matchbook. He pressed the fragment into Thomas’s hand, then shook his hand with both of his. 

“It was good to see you, Jopson,” Little said earnestly. Then he was gone, coat sweeping around his shins as he ducked into the crowd and disappeared. Thomas turned the ragged bit of cardboard over in his hands, and relished the sight of Little’s cramped writing. 

* * *

It was a fit of madness, inviting Jopson for dinner. Edward saw that now. He had no other explanation for it. 

( _ Not entirely true,  _ a voice said in the back of his head.  _ You knew you’d taste only bitter disappointment if you returned to the lakehouse without seeing him again. _ )

Edward paced the dining room. He checked with Beatrice’s cook twice, thrice, making sure everything would be perfect. He rearranged the glasses and decanters on the table just for something to do with his hands. 

Jopson arrived precisely on time. Of course he did, he was Thomas Jopson. 

Edward sat in an armchair in the sitting room and listened to the sounds of Jopson giving his coat over to the doorman, exchanging pleasantries, being led toward Edward. He puffed on his pipe and looked out the window, feigning nonchalance. A man, not a coward. 

“Lieutenant,” Jopson greeted when he entered the room. 

Edward turned toward him and stood with a smile. 

“Jopson,” he said, stretching out a hand to shake Jopson’s. That was as far as he got before faltering. “Uh, found the place alright, then?” 

A spasm of amusement passed across Jopson’s face. He glanced around the room as if to say,  _ Obviously.  _

“You did give me the address, sir. It wasn’t hard.” 

“Right. Of course.” Edward wiped his palms on the lapels of his dinner jacket. His hands were sweaty. “Right.” 

Jopson raised his eyebrows. Edward’s anxiety seemed a rather humorous thing to him. Edward wondered what to do next. Should he show Jopson the house? It wasn’t his, it seemed an invasion of privacy to walk a stranger through Beatrice’s house. Was he to offer drinks in the dining room? But Jopson didn’t take spirits. Or did he? Edward had never asked. There was much he didn’t know about Thomas Jopson. 

“This is a charming house,” Jopson said, gesturing to the sitting room, decorated in pale yellow and gold. There was a large pianoforte along the windows, and four chintz armchairs centered around a low glass table. “Your sister’s, you said?”

“Yes. Beatrice.” 

“That’s a lovely name.” Jopson nodded toward the chairs, and then stepped forward to take a seat. Edward did the same. 

“She’s fond of it. Shakespeare has always been her great love. I tease her sometimes, which came first, the love of your namesake, or the old bard himself?” 

“I haven’t had the occasion to read much of his work, I’m afraid. I’d like to, someday,” Jopson said. “And you? Do you read much?”

“When the occasion arises. I used to read a great deal as a boy. Mother used to chide me for it sometimes. Said my nose would be covered in ink from all the time it was buried in books.” 

“Does your mother live in the city?” 

“New Malden. My youngest two sisters still live with her.” 

“How many sisters do you have?” 

“Just the three. I’ve four brothers, as well.” 

“So many of you,” Jopson laughed. “How ever did your mother manage it?”

“There’s a saying in the Little family: What we lack in name we make up for in children.” 

Jopson’s laugh was a hearty, warm sound. Edward quite liked it. Before he got his fill of it, however, they were called to dinner. Edward gestured for Jopson to take the lead, and they entered the great dining room, place settings sat at each end of the long table. 

They took their seats, and Edward immediately began to fidget with his napkin, the place setting. Jopson seemed rather far away, separated as they were by the great expanse of mahogany. Jopson seemed to sense this, for he tipped his head to one side and said, “Do you like eating in here?” 

Edward glanced around. It was a lovely room. Beatrice had done a wonderful job decorating it. 

“Not particularly. When it is just me and my sister, we usually take dinner on the balcony.” 

“Shall we then?”

Edward was endlessly grateful for Jopson taking charge. He rather felt like he was the one being hosted for dinner, like he was Jopson’s guest in his own family home. Edward nodded, and called for the butler to bring their meal to the balcony. He scooped up his wine glass and the decanter on his way out, and Jopson brought his own glass. 

The balcony was far more comfortable, in Edward’s opinion. The table was small and a bit cramped, but at least out here he could see the lightness of Jopson’s eyes. Their knees brushed under the table as they took their seats. 

“I’ve never been one for formal dining rooms to tell you the truth,” Jopson said. “Too much time spent serving in them to ever feel comfortable being the one served.” 

“I should have guessed as much. Even on the ships, the quarters were rather cramped. I find I like it better that way.” 

“Indeed,” Jopson sipped his wine and placed a napkin on his lap, nodding a thank you to the attendant who placed their soup on the table. “In spite of it all, I rather miss the wardroom on Terror. It felt like a second home to me. Or perhaps a  _ first  _ home, in truth.” 

Edward sighed and fiddled with the napkin again. Mention of the wardroom had brought back the same indignity he’d felt the night before. 

“It should have been you being honored last night,” Edward said. “It felt entirely wrong accepting that medal knowing how the Admiralty has disgraced you. I feel I have quite enough to apologize for already without them adding new guilt to my shoulders. What transpired at sea, during that walk, truly I’m sorry, Jopson--” 

“Please, sir,” Jopson said, waving a hand to stop Edward’s onslaught of apologies. “Please don’t apologize. If you’d accommodate me, I’d rather pretend there never was any voyage. Just for now, at least. I’d like to imagine we are just enjoying a dinner together as friends, not as whatever that horrid journey made us.” 

“As friends, then,” Edward said, raising his wine glass for Jopson to clink his own against. 

It was rather easier after that. Jopson asked of Edward’s family, his lakehouse, his favorite type of wine. Edward learned that he had one brother, and a mother who had passed while they were at sea. He offered his condolences, but Jopson waved them away, a smile ever present on his face. 

When they parted, Edward promised to write. Jopson shook his hand and said, “I’ll look forward to it.” 

* * *

Thomas was rather good with children, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exhaust him. He’d taken up the role as de facto babysitter during his stay with his brother. It made him feel glad to have something to offer his brother, for all his generosity letting Thomas stay with him during his recovery and as he tried to get back on his feet, but still there was a certain exhaustion that came with being surrounded by the noise of his family all the time. 

He hardly got the time to read his own letters, let alone compose them. Thomas wondered if it meant he was getting old, that he spent so much time wishing for the solitude of an empty room where he could read a newspaper in peace. 

Edward wrote to him within a fortnight. 

_ Dear Mr. Jopson, _

_ It was a great pleasure seeing you in London. I’ll admit I was rather loath to make the trip for the ceremony alone, so I’m pleased to say our dinner was the highlight of the trip. I don’t spend much time in London, but perhaps I might if it meant getting to dine with you more often. It’s good to have someone I can consider a friend, despite you knowing my shortcomings so intimately. I do hope it’s alright that I consider you a friend. I mean not to assume anything of your kindness that is not expressly offered.  _

_ The lakehouse is nothing like Beatrice’s home. Returning here, I found it rather uninspired compared to her townhouse. The garden is overgrown and there is an inch of dust on every surface. At least there is more sunshine here than in London. I’ll never tire of seeing it break through the clouds, I rather think. Too much gray at sea. _

_ There is much to be done to the lakehouse. I fear I’ve never been much good at tending an estate. There are so many roles to fill. Gardening, cleaning, cooking, stocking, managing. I suppose I must forgive myself for letting the dust collect, with so much that needs doing.  _

_ I’m sorry if the ink is smudged. Cicero, the cat I seem to now be the owner of, insists on climbing on my lap every time I write. She is a needful thing. Perhaps she only wishes to greet you. I’ll give her a pet, and say it’s from you.  _

_ I hope you are well. Write back if you see fit.  _

_ Yours, _

_ Lt. Edward Little _

Thomas read through the letter with a smile on his face. What a charming thing, Little was. So hesitant to refer to Thomas as a friend, despite Thomas saying it outright during their dinner. The letter made him sad, too, in a way. As sweet as it was, he didn’t like thinking of Little seeking companionship in pets rather than people, of him puttering around in the lakehouse all alone, surrounded by dust. Little was not an overly extroverted person, Thomas knew this from their time aboard Terror, but even still the thought of him alone there distressed Thomas. 

Uninterested to return to sea, yet deserted on land. Trapped between two worlds. 

Thomas wrote back to Little at once. 

_ Dear Cdr. Little,  _

_ It is curious to me that you sign off your letters as Lieutenant, though I believe only a fortnight ago you were given a new title. Have you rejected it? Even should you refuse the voyage, the promotion is yours. I don’t mean to speak so frankly, but as you say, we are friends I hope.  _

_ The lakehouse sounds rather wonderful, despite how you talk down on it. Might I suggest something, if you are having trouble tending it? You say there are many roles to fill. Well, you needn’t fill them all every day. Perhaps you might plan a routine for yourself: Mondays you act as manager, answering the day’s letters and tending the post. Tuesday you play banker, Wednesday you play gardner, Thursday you play scullery maid. Just remember to also include time for yourself. Say, Friday you are nothing more than Edward Little?  _

_ I’m sorry I must cut this letter short. My sister by marriage, Allison, has asked for my help putting the children to bed. As dearly as I love my family, there are never enough hours in the day for me to say all I want in my letters. Always some distraction knocking at my door, or some noise I can’t ignore.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Thomas Jopson _

Little’s reply came the following week. It was short, much shorter than his first. It merely read: 

_ Jopson,  _

_ You write of an abundance of noise, while I sit here in a house that feels altogether too silent. I have plenty of ink for writing all the letters you might desire. Countless books that need reading. Enough space for six of you. Should you wish to visit, there is a train station just outside the property. Details overleaf. I could pick you up by carriage.  _

_ Yours, _

_ Lt. Little _

Head aching from the wailing of his niece, disappointed in her brother’s inability to share his picture book, bones tired from the long steps in his brother’s townhouse, Thomas didn’t hesitate in sending his reply. Visiting the lakehouse seemed a blessed generosity. 

Thomas didn’t think of what it would be like to share a house with Little. Didn’t stop to consider whether it was proper, or if Little had merely offered as a baseless courtesy. 

All he considered was that there was a lakehouse with sunshine, books, and Edward Little waiting for him just outside Brighton. 

* * *

Jopson’s upcoming visit invigorated the lakehouse with new life. Edward busied himself with tidying the place, asked his housekeeper to stock the pantry full of all kinds of decadent things. Edward’s mind was a jumbled mess of tasks: check for fresh linens, write to the grocer, schedule the carriage, snip some lilies from the garden and place them in the kitchen vase. 

It was the first time since living here that he’d wished he hadn’t dismissed all the staff. He could use their help getting this place fit for someone like Thomas Jopson. 

The day was upon him before he knew it, and just as Edward was to meet the carriage to take him to the train station, he found a letter atop his desk, placed there by Mrs. Hathaway no doubt. No stranger to ignoring letters, Edward nearly dismissed it until he noticed the Admiralty’s seal. Cursing himself for his forgetfulness, Edward scooped it up and took it to the carriage with him. 

It was as he expected.  _ We have awaited your response with patience, but unfortunately we must press you, will you be accepting the voyage? The arrangements are being made, we need only confirmation of their commander.  _ Edward placed the letter in his coat pocket and rode the remainder of the way to the train station with his head in his hands. 

He’d meant to write to them the first week he returned to the lakehouse, but then writing to Jopson was a much simpler pleasure. He’d told himself to do it everyday, but there was so much else that needed doing. Not that Edward did the half of what needed doing, instead he sat in his armchair with his pipe and ruminated on things he wished he could shake from his head. Memories, regrets, sheltered desires. 

His mother had named him wrong when she christened him Edward. She ought to have called him  _ Stagnant. Inactive. Static.  _

Edward didn’t need to wait long for Jopson’s train to arrive. When Jopson stepped to the platform, bag under his arm, he grinned at Edward. Edward only grimaced. It was the best he could offer. 

“What a charming ride,” Jopson said, coming to greet Edward. “The countryside is beautiful.”

“Jopson,” Edward said in greeting. Too cold, too dull to even his own ears. The confused expression on Jopson’s face struck him like an iron. He wanted to backtrack, to say,  _ Sorry, ought we try again? I meant to say you look luminous, it’s a wonderful kindness to see you in my little corner of the world.  _ Instead Edward’s grimace only deepened. 

“Commander,” Jopson said, mistaking Edward’s frigidity for a chastisement on his lack of formality. “Sir.” 

“The carriage is just around here,” Edward said, gesturing blindly behind him. He nearly slapped a passerby in the shoulder, and snatched his hand back instantly. He felt entirely out of place. He figured it best to just move onward, turning away from Jopson and taking a step toward the carriage. 

“Wait,” Jopson said. “If I’ve done something to offend you, sir, please tell me. If your invitation was a mere courtesy, let it be known and I will board the next train home. I don’t mean to invade your privacy.” 

Edward stiffened and turned back toward Jopson. He willed his shoulders to settle, his face to display the joy he felt at Jopson’s arrival, and not the bitterness he felt toward himself. He was afraid it didn’t have quite the effect he hoped, for the frown on Jopson’s face only deepened. 

“You’ve done nothing to offend me. I’m sorry I’ve made you feel as though you had. It’s only-- Well, come, I’ll tell you in the carriage.” 

Jopson took a hesitant step toward Edward, who only waved him onward. He walked a step behind Edward as they made way for the carriage, a habit borne of rank and harbored in the belly of a ship. Edward didn’t like it. He wished Jopson would walk at his side like the equal he was. 

“I really am quite glad you’re here,” Edward said, opening the carriage door and gesturing for Jopson to step inside. “I suppose I don’t have a very good way of showing it, though.” 

“No, sir,” Jopson smiled. 

In the carriage, Edward produced the letter from his coat pocket and passed it across to Jopson. Jopson read it, chewing his bottom lip, before raising his eyes to Edward. There was a smile there, restrained by his teeth. He looked as though he wanted to laugh. 

“Well,” Jopson said. “Is this what has you so worked up?”

“Yes. I meant to write, truly, I did but-- Are you laughing at me?” 

“Pardon me, sir,” Jopson pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle the sound. “I don’t mean to tease. It’s only, well, there’s a rather simple answer, isn’t there? Write them back.” 

Edward pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t stop the smile from tinting his own face. Everything seemed so simple in Jopson’s voice.  _ Write them back.  _ Why had it seemed such an insurmountable task for Edward? Perhaps he should hire Jopson on as his personal life manager. He rather thought things would go more smoothly hearing Jopson lay everything out so plainly for him. 

“I’ll need to apologize, of course. There’s no reason I’ve been so delayed. I knew my answer the same day I left the ceremony.”

“They needn’t know that. Just write and offer your apologies. Tell them again that you appreciate the offer, but graciously decline. I can help you compose it, sir, should you wish. I’m rather good with words. And empty pleasantries, besides.” 

“Your help would be most welcomed,” Edward said. He lowered his hand and watched Jopson, still snickering. His own laughter spilled out of him without any force. It was nice, sitting in the carriage with Jopson, sharing in laughter. Edward wasn’t sure when the last time he’d laughed was. 

He was in much better spirits by the time they reached the house. The two of them spilled out of the carriage, and Edward offered to carry Jopson’s bag. He refused.

Jopson gazed at the lakehouse with unbidden elation. Edward found himself looking upon it with new eyes, imagining the way Jopson saw it. Not just as a dusty old family heirloom, but for the beauty it was. The blue siding and white trim was faded with age, but still attractive. Two stories tall, with a large wrap around porch on the first floor. There were large windows in the front of the house, illuminated by the gas lamps within. The windows on the second floor were smaller and round, like the port windows on a ship. 

Though the garden was overgrown, it didn’t seem such a tragedy walking along the path with Jopson. It felt as though the wild columbine and daisies spilled onto the walkway to kiss their feet as they passed. They were bowing their heads in welcome, just as joyful at the prospect of Jopson’s visit as Edward was. 

The lake wasn’t visible from the front of the house, but Edward would show it to Jopson in time. Time, he found, was something they would have a rather lot of. Whereas the empty expanse of days had filled Edward with dread just weeks previous, now it seemed a tantalizing promise. Time for them to spend lounging on the porch or fishing on the docks. Time to get to know one another, and enjoy each other’s company. 

“You can put your bag here, I’ll bring them to your room later,” Edward said, gesturing in the entryway. 

“It’s lovely,” Jopson said. His eyes flittered all around the room, to the pale wood on the floors, to the cream of the walls. Portraits hung in the hallway, most of them wearing Edward’s self-same stern expression. The knitted brows were a trait of all Little men, unfortunately. 

Lysander greeted them in the entryway. He was half spaniel, half the-dog-nextdoor, with curly fur in a speckled black and white pattern. Jopson dropped to his knees at the sight of him, beckoning him forward and rubbing at his ears. Jopson laughed when Lysander licked at his palms. 

“His name is Lysander,” Edward said. “He’s a silly dog.” 

“He’s a sweet boy,” Jopson said, in that childish voice everyone adopts when talking to a dog. “Aren’t you?  _ Aren’t you _ ?” 

They walked through the house, and Edward introduced each room with modesty. He hadn’t been lying when he said there was much that needed done in the house. There was something in every room. 

“These curtains need replacing,” Edward said of the den. “I just haven’t had the time to write the seamstress.” 

“The stove needs cleaning,” he said of the kitchen. “I just haven’t had time to hire a scullery maid.” 

“The books here are all disorganized,” he said of the library. “I just haven’t the time to do it.” 

Jopson listened to each of Edward’s complaints with grace. He offered his own comments on the rooms. 

“The lighting in here is wonderful,” he said of the den. 

“Oh, I love the wood in here. Beautiful coloring,” he said of the kitchen. 

“You must spend so much time here. I would, if I had the chance,” he said of the library. 

Edward felt his unease at the state of the house drop away with every compliment Jopson had to offer. He spoke earnestly, his eyes bright with the sight of it all. Edward felt warm with the attention of it. He felt as though the house ought to blush with all the kindness Jopson showered upon it. 

“There’s much that needs to be done,” Edward said when they finally returned to the den, easing himself into one of the armchairs. “But I’m glad you like it, despite its faults.” 

“I’ve always found it easiest to make lists,” Jopson said, sitting opposite Edward and stretching out his legs. “Everything seems much more manageable when you lay it out on paper. I can help, if you’d like.” 

“I thought I invited you here to offer you solitude, not to ask you to organize my affairs.” 

“I’m always happiest when I’m working, sir.” 

Edward frowned. 

“Please, no formalities here. Call me Edward.” 

“Then might I be Thomas to you?” 

Edward nodded. He wanted to try the name out on his tongue, feel the shape of the letters on his lips. Instead he said, “If you insist. And I’ll accept your help in making the list, but nothing more. I won’t have you dirtying your hands with this house. It’s meant to be a vacation for you, not another job.” 

“Very well,” A pause, then, “Edward.” 

That brought a smile to Edward’s face. 

They dined together in the kitchen nook, and though Jopson kept a running dialogue of his opinion on the food, the lamps, the passing glimpse he caught of Cicero, Edward watched as his shoulders began to droop and he hid exhausted yawns behind his hands. 

“You’re tired,” Edward said after they’d loitered around the table for far too long. “I can show you to your room.” 

“Thank you,” Jopson yawned again. “Travelling takes it out of me, I suppose.” 

Jopson followed Edward up the stairs and to the bedroom Edward had prepared. It was decorated in pale blue and soft grays, colors that reminded Edward of Jopson. They said goodnight, and Edward found his way to the library where he poured himself a glass of brandy and reclined against the sofa there. 

It was a small room, nothing like the library in the house he’d grown up in. But it was comfortable, and packed tight with armchairs and towering bookshelves. The disorganization of it was somehow reassuring to Edward. A room that didn’t expect anything from him except for him to be alone with a good book, or perhaps his thoughts. 

Tonight his thoughts were of Thomas Jopson. There was such affection in Edward’s heart for the other man. His genial nature, his penchant for doomless optimism. There was also the matter of his smile, and his laugh, and his sky colored eyes. Edward knew better than to dwell on it. The attraction he felt for Jopson was inappropriate at best, and perverted at worst. Edward was no stranger to his own improper fantasies, but it would not do to make Jopson a part of them too. 

There was no harm in the fondness, so long as Edward never acted upon it. They could be friends, could share mutual cordiality and kindness with one another, but that’s all it could ever be. Though his affections would never be returned in kind, Edward was content that of the two of them, he could be the more loving one. 

Jopson deserved that much, at least. 

* * *

“How do I start it?” Little asked. “Dear Sir Barrow? Um…”

Thomas laughed. Little was hunched over the desk in the library, pen tapping against the wood. Thomas stood behind him, looking over his shoulder. 

“Sir John Barrow, comma,” Thomas dictated. Little scribbled on the page. He had very nice handwriting, neat and tidy, the kind that comes from education by governesses and tutors. Thomas’s handwriting was far worse than Little’s. “I thank you for your inquiry, and apologize for the delay in my response. While the offer has given me great honor, I must politely decline.” 

Thomas continued on like that until the letter was finished. Little signed his name primly at the bottom and blew on the paper to dry the ink. Thomas straightened his back and smiled to himself. There was much Thomas didn’t know about Little, but one thing he knew quite intimately was that he thrived under direct instruction. He had a habit of second guessing himself, a quirk that Thomas felt was underserved, but some things were difficult to unlearn. Thomas wondered what it was that made him like that. Had he been pressured and second guessed as a child, or had he trained himself on it of his own volition? 

Thomas might not know the answer, but he did know how to work with it. Once the letter was sealed and ready for the post, Thomas said, “Should we get to work on that list? Take me through the house again. Here, hand over that notepad. I’ll keep track.” 

They walked through the house and Little pointed out all the bit and pieces he wanted to change. It was entirely unnecessary in Thomas’s opinion. The house was charming on it’s own. There were items that could be updated, certainly, but nothing truly  _ needed  _ doing. It was perfectly fine as it was. That didn’t change the fact that Little clearly saw it lacking in some way. Thomas was happy to do anything that would help ease Little’s anxiety, however. It had been palatable since he’d arrived. 

Thomas kept succinct notes as they went.  _ Stove, cleaning - maid; curtains, new - seamstress; rug, replaced - town.  _ The gardens were the worst of it. Little couldn’t even put into words what he disliked about them. He gestured around and then said, “It’s just… messy.” 

“Do you want it relandscaped?” 

“No. I don’t know. Maybe?” 

“Do you like the layout as it is, or do you want it updated?” 

“The layout is fine. I think. What do you think? Would it be better if the patio was bigger?” 

Thomas wanted to say,  _ I think it’s all perfect as it is. There’s a rustic charm to it, something messy and beautiful all at once.  _ Instead he said, “If you want my opinion, I think the layout is fine. The weeds need tending, and this bunch of flowers is encroaching on the path. They could be cut back a bit, but not too much. They add a nice spot of color to this area.” 

“Exactly,” Little said. “That’s exactly right.” 

Jopson wrote,  _ Weeds, pulled - garden; columbines, cut back - garden.  _

It was mid-afternoon by the time they’d finished. They were just retiring to the den when Little said, “Oh, Hell, the letter. I have to go to the post-office. Do you care to join, or would you rather stay here?” 

In truth, Thomas’s knee was beginning to ache and he rather liked the idea of exploring the library. 

“You go,” Thomas said. “I’ll be fine here.” 

“I’ll only be a short while. Mrs. Hathaway is around here somewhere, if you need anything don’t hesitate to ask.” 

Little gave a short wave and then disappeared out of the house. Thomas rested in the den a while before becoming restless and finding his way to the library. Along the way he met Mrs. Hathaway, a stooped, motherly figure. She was digging in the linen closet and startled at the sound of Thomas’s approach. Thomas rushed forward to help steady the pile of linens that nearly toppled at her jolt of surprise. He was all too familiar with the disappointment of spilling fresh laundry onto the floor. 

“Thank you, sir,” she said with a chuckle. “I hadn’t thought anyone was here. I thought you’d left with Edward.” 

“I didn’t meant to startle you,” Thomas said. He stepped back from the woman. “Is there anything I can help you with?” 

“A kind offer, but of course I shan’t accept help from a gentleman.” Mrs. Hathaway closed the linen closet and brushed off her apron. 

“Good thing I’m not a gentleman,” Thomas laughed. 

“You’re a guest of Edward’s,” she said. “That makes you a gentleman. Care for a spot of tea?” 

“That would be wonderful, thank you.” 

Thomas followed Mrs. Hathaway to the kitchen, where he felt entirely out of place sitting at the table waiting while she bustled with the kettle. He should have been the one behind the stove. 

“I don’t think I’ve gotten your name, sir,” Mrs. Hathaway said. 

“Thomas, please,” Thomas said. “And yours?” 

“Evelyn, dear.” She placed the tea in front of him. “There you are.” 

“Won’t you join me?” Thomas asked, gesturing to the seat across from him. She chuckled and went to the kitchen to retrieve a second cup. Thomas poured for the both of them. His practiced ease didn’t go unnoticed by Evelyn. 

“See, now, whenever Edward does that he spills the half of it on the table. He thinks he’s helping, but it only creates more work for me in the long run.” 

“I’ve had plenty of practice,” Thomas said with a wink. “I was a steward for the Discovery Service.” 

“Well that would explain it.” Evelyn had a very sweet disposition. There was mischief and kindness in her eyes. She must have been a mother, a grandmother even. To a lucky family, indeed. “You pour with such grace, you put even me to shame.” 

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

“I am glad you’ve come to visit, you know,” Evelyn said as she sipped her tea. “Edward was in such a tizzy when he gave me the news. You’d think he’d never had a guest before. Brought a bit of life to this house.” 

“What do you mean?” Thomas needn’t have asked. He knew perfectly well what she meant. He’d read it plain in the letter he wrote Thomas, had known it perhaps from the first moment he saw Little at the Admiralty ceremony. 

“He’s quite lonely here, all by himself. His family comes to visit as often as they can, of course. But I’ve never seen him run about the way he did when you wrote to him with news of your visit. It’s good to see him with color in his cheeks again.” 

Thomas rolled the words around in his mind. The idea made him warm. 

“How long have you known him?” Thomas asked. 

“Oh, since he was just a babe. And such a sweet thing he was. Always so quiet, but then, you know that about him already. Never a word his doesn’t mean, our Edward.” 

_ And what of you?  _ Thomas thought.  _ Do you ever speak a word you don’t mean, Evelyn? Or was it no slip of the tongue that you called him ‘our Edward’?  _

It wasn’t a thought Thomas could entertain. Little was an untouchable thing. So far above Thomas, not just in rank but in class and status besides. Even had they been on even footing, there was no place for the fondness in Thomas’s heart. It was a different kind of fondness than he’d ever harbored for his brother, for his parents, for the Captain. It was a burning thing, hot and heavy in his heart. 

It was just as unforgettable as it was improper. 

It needn’t be so, though. Thomas was nurturing by nature. He liked to feel needed, and he liked to lavish affection on people. It was what made him a good steward, and, he hoped, a good friend. Little was in need of that affection right now, so unsure of his own footing back on dry land. There was nothing untoward between them. And if it came down to it, came down to Little flourishing under the attention for the week, the month, the season, and then casting Thomas aside, well, Thomas could live with that. 

Thomas could live with being the more loving one. 


	2. Chapter 2

Over breakfast, Edward leaned back in his chair and said, “Could I persuade you to join me at the lake today?” 

Jopson hesitated, porridge spoon halfway to his lips. A complicated look flashed across his face, first a frown then the immediately smoothing of it, as though he wished the expression away. Edward watched with interest. 

“I do want to see the lake,” Jopson said. “But perhaps another day? It’s only, my knee is rather angry at me for all the action it’s seen the last two days.” 

“Oh,” Edward sat up in his chair. “Oh, you should have said. It’s nothing to worry about, of course, the lake will be there whenever we’re ready. But, is there anything you need? Should I send for the doctor?” 

Jopson laughed, a startled, exasperated sound. 

“No, no,” he chuckled. “It’s quite alright, really. A little rest is all it needs.” 

Edward searched Jopson’s face for any indication of a lie. Jopson was not a fragile man by any measure. He was strong and capable, had pulled his own weight and the weight of others on the shale. He had fought off illness and injury, had survived the unimaginable. 

(There were times when Edward thought he wouldn’t. Times when he thought he would die in that tent, Captain Crozier beside him. The gladdest thing of all was the ringing of those bells, Hartnell calling, ‘We’re saved!’ Knowing if Jopson had made it this far, he could make it home.)

“If you’re sure,” Edward said finally. “If that should change, let me know, will you?”

“Aye, sir,” Jopson said with a cheeky salute. 

Jopson was steady on his feet, but even still, Edward could see the way he favored his left leg. Edward hovered beside him, ready to catch him should he stumble, but he didn’t. He found a spot on the sofa in the den, and settled into it easily. Edward stood beside the doorway, feeling a bit lost. He was thankful when Jopson looked at him and said, “Actually, there is something you could do. Would you bring me a book to read? I saw you had quite the collection of Dickens.” 

Edward nodded and darted from the room. Uncertain what Jopson would like, Edward collected a stack of half a dozen Dickens novels and brought them back to the den. Jopson thanked him when he deposited the stack onto the sofa beside him. 

Not wanting to disturb Jopson but unwilling to be parted from him, Edward collected the list Jopson made the previous day and settled himself into the opposite sofa. They sat together in relative silence, Edward going through the list, making plans, and every now and again asking things like, “Who does one call on to fix a crack in the plaster? Would that be a caulker, or a carpenter?” 

“Caulker,” Jopson answered, without looking up from his novel. 

“Cheers,” Edward said, then returned to his work. 

It was a pleasant way to pass the day. Mrs. Hathaway brought them tea around noon, and when the sun broke through the clouds in the early afternoon Edward opened the windows to allow in the fresh air and sunshine. 

Edward found it quite strange, the peculiar familiarity he felt working silently in the same room as Jopson. Though the house was no louder than it’d been with just himself alone, Jopson’s mere presence in the room made the house feel less lonely. Every now and again he would shift in his seat, or rustle a page. Little sounds, sounds that reminded Edward that there was someone else there beside him. They needn’t talk, nor fill the silence with idle chatter. It was enough to know that Jopson was there. 

It was nearly supper when Edward said, “Should I pick the colors for the new curtains, or would it be better to let the seamstress? She probably knows better than I do--” 

Edward snapped his mouth shut. Jopson was sound asleep, stretched out on the sofa. His book was resting on his chest, still open to the last page he’d read. One hand was pressed against his face, squishing his cheek so that his lips were slightly parted. Edward stared for much longer than the sight truly merited. 

Finally collecting himself, Edward stood quietly and crossed to Jopson’s sofa. He removed the book gently and placed a slip of paper in the binding to save his page. Taking a knit blanket from the stack in the cupboard, Edward draped it over Jopson’s sleeping form. He refrained from touching Jopson anymore than strictly necessary, though he badly wanted to rest a hand on his shoulder, the crown of his head. 

Edward left the room swiftly, before he could second-guess himself. 

* * *

Thomas awoke to a pleasant warmth. He thought for a moment he must be in his bed, before realizing with a start that the last thing he remembered was hearing the scratching of Little’s pen against paper, his notebook propped against his knees as he reclined on the sofa opposite Thomas. 

The den. The lakehouse. Edward Little. 

Thomas shot awake, sitting upright on the couch and disturbing the blanket that had been laid across his chest. Darkness filled the room, and through the window Thomas could see the twinkle of stars. 

Cursing himself for being such a bad guest, Thomas righted himself and stretched his leg. His knee was feeling better, if not a bit stiff from the time spent on the couch. The house was silent around him. Thomas wondered if Little had already retired for the night. 

Wandering through the halls, Thomas spotted a light burning in the dining nook. It was there that he found Edward at the table, a cup of tea on the table before him, his legs propped up on an opposing chair. Cicero, the lovely calico cat, was curled on his lap. He seemed to be acting as a kickstand, as Little was resting a book on his back, seemingly wrapped up in the words. 

Little hadn’t heard Thomas enter. He’d always been rather light on his feet, a mark of a good steward. 

Thomas cleared his throat. Little startled, and Cicero leapt from his lap at the sudden movement. 

“Sorry,” Thomas said as Little craned around in his chair to spot Thomas. 

“You’re awake,” Little said, sounding pleased. “Here, let me.”

He was on his feet and pulling out a chair for Thomas before he could object. 

“I’m really quite well,” Thomas laughed. “You needn’t attend to me as though I was on my deathbed.” 

His words caused Little’s face to twist in a grimace. He supposed it was in poor taste, considering Little had known Thomas when he really was on his deathbed. Surely that would mean Little knew a sore knee was far from the worst Thomas had ever sustained. 

“I just want you to be comfortable,” Little said. “Are you hungry?” 

“I suppose I missed dinner?” 

“I saved you some stew. It’s still warm. Don’t get up, I’ll get it.” 

There was a clattering in the kitchen, and a muttered curse, before Little reemerged with a bowl and a few slices of thick cut bread. He passed them across the table to Thomas before settling back in his own chair and patting around for a place marker for his book. 

“This is good,” Thomas said, doing his best not to shovel the stew into his mouth. “Give Evelyn my compliments.” 

“Evelyn?” Little laughed. “I hadn’t realized you two were on a first name basis.” 

“We had tea when you went to the post office,” Thomas explained. “She’s lovely.” 

“She is,” Little agreed. “Listen, Thomas, you should have spoken up earlier about your knee. Had I realized, I wouldn’t have put you on the second floor. I expect the stairs aren’t great for it.” 

“No,” Thomas agreed slowly. “But it’s really nothing.” 

“We could switch rooms,” Little offered. “Mine is on the ground floor, as you know.” 

Thomas snorted, nearly choking on his food. He shook his head, swallowed, then said, “Certainly not. I couldn’t take the master bedroom. This is your house.” 

“The one adjacent mine, then? It’s rather small, intended for a valet I believe. But at least there are no stairs.” 

Thomas considered this for a moment. He didn’t want to appear needy to Little. He was gracious enough to let him into his home, to feed him at his table, and, if his suspicions were correct, to cover him with a blanket when he fell asleep in the den. He couldn’t ask more of Little. 

He opened his mouth to say as much, but there was something anxious in Little’s face. His brows were furrowed, and the gentle way he looked upon Thomas made him change tactics entirely. Better to give in, than to argue. 

“That would be welcomed, thank you.” 

“I’ll get it ready for you,” Little said. He was out of the room in an instant. Thomas laughed to himself at the table. How had it come to this: The lieutenant he had waited on hand and foot for years aboard Terror, rushing about his own house, readying a special bedroom for Thomas. 

Thomas finished his stew and washed his dish in the sink. Little returned just after Thomas retrieved his book from the den, and showed him to his new room. He had a dozen apologies as he went. The lighting wasn’t very good, the bed was too small, the window was drafty. Thomas waved them all off. He wondered if he ought to just make a blanket rule: “Edward Little, if you apologize for one more thing in this house I will sic Evelyn on you,” but he didn’t think that would be welcomed. 

They said goodnight in the hallway, and retired to their adjacent bedrooms. Having napped half the day away, Jopson wasn’t eager to sleep. He settled himself in the bed and propped his book on his knees, easily losing himself in the words. It was hours later when he heard Little’s door open and footsteps in the hall. There was a clattering in the kitchen and the whistle of a kettle. 

To Thomas’s great pleasure, the next sound he heard was Little talking in low tones, the affectation in his voice leaving Thomas no doubt that it was Lysander he spoke to. 

An hour passed, and Thomas considered leaving his own room to find Little. Admitting that he too was awake. Perhaps they could read together in the den, or share tea in the nook. The idea had its merits, but there was the frightening element of intimacy. The two of them, alone in the empty house, under cover of darkness, both in their nightclothes. No, it couldn’t be. 

Little returned to his room eventually. Thomas turned out his light and snuggled beneath his blankets. He wondered how often Little had sleepless nights. Often, Thomas guessed, if his tired appearance was anything to go by.  _ Fitful dreams _ , Thomas thought.  _ Just as I have.  _

* * *

Jopson was already awake and sitting in the dining nook when Edward awoke the following morning. Edward said, “Good morning,” voice muffled through a yawn, and plopped himself down across from Jopson. He’d made tea. Edward poured himself a cup and yawned again. 

“How’s your knee?” Edward asked. 

“Better,” Jopson said. “But it would still thank me for being gentle with it. Have anything planned for today?” 

“Well, since it’s Wednesday, I thought I might play gardener today. There are weeds that need pulling.” 

“I’d like to join, even if I won’t be much help. I could use a spot of sun.” 

The idea pleased him. Jopson looked good in the sunshine. He looked like someone who belonged there, like one of the wildflowers growing in the garden. 

It was a bright day, the midsummer sun high in the sky by the time Edward and Jopson got around to quitting the house. Jopson took a seat on the porch, pulling his chair to the patch of sun near the stairs. He was like a cat, Edward thought. Sun seeking, curling up in the warmth. 

Edward brought out a decanter of whiskey and a pitcher of water to place beside Jopson on the porch. Then he found gloves in the gardening shed and took to work clearing the walkway of weeds that crept along the cobblestone path. Lysander joined them eventually, curling at Jopson’s feet, and even Cicero came to sit in the sun. 

“Is your book any good?” Edward asked, pulling nettle from the cracks. 

“It’s okay,” Jopson said, then launched into a complete retelling of the plot. Edward sat back on his heels, pushed up his shirt-sleeves, and went to the porch to pour himself a spot of whiskey. Jopson took one, too. It was early in the day to be drinking, but Edward had a fondness for day drinking on the porch. 

“Sorry, that’s probably more than you wanted to know,” Jopson said with a laugh, when he paused a moment between his recollections. “You only asked how it was.” 

“It sounds entertaining, at least,” Edward said. “Read it aloud? Wherever you’re at is fine.” 

Jopson cleared his throat and began mid-sentence. Edward returned to the weeds, listening to Jopson’s voice like a melody. 

The feeling he’d had yesterday in the den returned, washing over Edward. A sense of contentment, sitting here with Jopson, tending to their own tasks but sharing space with one another. It was a familiarity he hadn’t shared with anyone since growing up with his house full of siblings. 

This was quite unlike time spent with his siblings, though. Back then there had always been a sense of separation. The futures that loomed ahead of them would separate them eventually, they would grow up and become their own people. His sisters would get married, his brothers would join the army or the navy, would take jobs in London or travel to the colonies. They had a shared childhood, but eventually they would grow apart. 

The same was not true for Jopson and himself. They had spent their childhoods apart, strangers to one another. It was only now, as adults, that their paths were converging in such domestic ways. It didn’t feel like growing apart. It felt like growing together. 

Edward wondered, with that selfish, hungry part of himself, what the future held for the two of them. Would there be an eventual divergence, a point where they bid one another goodbye and never shared space again? Edward hoped not. The thought shamed him.

“Come have a drink with me,” Jopson said. His voice was hoarse from reading aloud. Edward obeyed. He came to sit beside Jopson on the porch and let Jopson pour them each a spot of whiskey. It was warm. Edward didn’t mind. 

“The yard looks better,” Jopson said. 

“I hardly did anything.” 

“Small steps are good steps.” 

“Here, give me the book. It’s my turn to read.” 

Jopson passed the book over and Edward cleared his throat. As he read, Jopson patted his lap and Cicero happily leapt up, curling into a ball on Jopson’s thighs. He stroked her soft fur, settled deep in his chair, listening to Edward. 

Every now and then Jopson would pour them each another swallow of whiskey, nudging at Edward’s elbow with the glass. He would pause his reading, finger acting as a place marker, and drink with Jopson. Cicero purred. Jopson rubbed her ears. 

“Edward, I’m sorry,” Jopson said eventually, stretching a hand across the table to lay his palm against Edward’s forearm. “I’m not taking in a single word you’re saying. I don’t know when I stopped, but the whiskey has shot my focus, I’m afraid.” 

_ Funny,  _ Edward thought.  _ It’s only sharpened mine.  _ All he could think of was the way Jopson’s hand felt against his exposed skin, how warm and calloused and heavy it was. 

“Quite alright,” Edward said, voice rough. He told himself it was from all the reading aloud. He cleared his throat. “Would you like to go inside?” 

“No,” Jopson said. “I’m rather comfortable here.” 

He certainly looked it. Cicero purring on his lap, Lysander’s head resting on his shoes, the sun enveloping him in her loving arms. 

Edward shut the book and placed it on the table. He tapped the whiskey decanter. 

“More whiskey, then?” 

Jopson swirled the drink in his glass before chuckling. “You know, the first time I ever drank whiskey, I thought I must have drunk lamp oil by mistake. It burned so badly. It was bad whiskey, I believe. This is much better.” 

Edward watched Jopson’s throat work as he tipped his head back and took a swallow. His mouth went dry. He drank the whiskey to wet it. 

“How old were you?’

“Seventeen, I believe?” Jopson phrased it as a question, eyebrows raised in a question. As if Edward knew. As if he had known Jopson then, and was asking Edward to confirm his timeline. Edward wished he knew Jopson at seventeen. He wished he’d known him his whole life, been there for every silly, awkward part of it. “Maybe sixteen. I can’t recall. One of the older boys in the neighborhood stole a bottle from his father.” 

“Were you sick from it?” 

“I only had the one drink. Couldn’t stand to have another.”

Jopson was watching Edward. There was a lazy expression on his face, one that Edward had never believed possible of Jopson. His eyes were relaxed, his body slumped into his chair. It was hard for Edward to reconcile this image of Jopson with the straight backed, high chinned version of him he’d known on the Terror. 

Edward quite liked this image of Jopson. He wanted to record it in his memory, catalogue it forever in the file titled ‘Thomas Jopson.’ 

“The first time I drank riesling, I was sick for days. It was so much sweeter than any type I’d tried before. I drank an entire bottle, and was drunk as a dog.” 

“I’d have liked to see that,” Jopson said. “Not you sick, of course. But you after an entire bottle of wine.” 

Edward grimaced. He shook his head, but Jopson’s smile only deepened. 

“It wasn’t a pretty sight. I nearly fell off the front porch. Beatrice had to lie to my mother and say I was ill. She took me to my room to put me to bed, but all I wanted to do was recite William Blake poems.” 

“You had them memorized?”

“No,” Edward laughed. “Not at all. That made it all the worse.” 

Jopson tipped his head back and laughed. It was such a bright, delighted noise. Edward had sailed halfway across the world, was a Commander in the Royal Navy, had survived it all, but he was certain inspiring such a charming noise from Thomas Jopson was his greatest accomplishment to date. 

“Beatrice still teases me about it,” Edward continued, just for the hope of keeping Jopson’s laughter alive. “She quotes Blake at me whenever we’re drinking to see if she can get me started again. That’s not the worst I’ve done, though. My brother and I drank a bottle of brandy on Christmas one year and tried to go riding. Thought I’d broken my neck, I’ve never been unseated on a horse so badly before.” 

Edward would tell Jopson embarrassing stories for years if it meant seeing such breathless joy on his face. To his great pleasure, recounting the trials of his youth earned a few stories from Jopson as well. The time he’d fallen from a tree trying to chase his brother up it, the time he’d fallen asleep in the sun and burned his cheeks so badly everyone thought he was wearing rouge. Edward tucked these tidbits away in his chest, a confirmation that once Jopson had been as wild and carefree as Edward was. Before the navy, before life got in the way. 

Mrs. Hathaway collected them for dinner eventually and when Edward stood from his seat he swayed, the alcohol rushing to his head. Jopson reached out a hand to steady him, though he seemed just as tipsy as Edward was.

“Steady, Commander,” Jopson said. 

“Edward,” Edward corrected. In a moment of courage he linked his elbow with Jopson, the way his sisters sometimes did to him. “Safer this way, I rather think?”

Jopson laughed, nodding. 

“Yes. Yes, I believe you’re right.” 

They stepped through the doorway together, arms linked, smiles on their lips.

* * *

Thomas awoke to the sound of shouting. He was out of bed and pulling on his dressing robe before he was even fully awake. A leftover habit from his expeditions, the ability to wake at the slightest provocation and launch into action before coherent thought could even form in his mind.

In the hallway the shouting stopped, but Thomas knew the sound of Little’s voice. It was dark in the hall, but Thomas found Little’s door easily. He had his hand on the doorknob to enter before remembering his courtesies. 

Thomas knocked, three quick raps, deafening in the silence of the house. 

“Enter.” Little’s voice sounded wretched, choked and halting. 

Jopson did so, but stayed beside the doorframe. He didn’t want to overwhelm Little, nor did he want to overstep his boundaries. 

“Are you alright?” Thomas asked. The room was dark, Thomas could only see faint silhouettes outlined by the moonlight that streamed through the window. He could see Little’s form on the bed, shuffling, reaching for the night table. 

In the strike of a match, Thomas caught sight of Little’s hands, shaking as they raised the flame to the wick of a candle. 

The candlelight illuminated the room enough for Thomas to see Little’s skittish expression, the way he had one hand pressed to his chest. His shoulders heaved with his heavy breathing. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you, I should have taken a room upstairs,” Little was saying, his words much too fast. “I thought this might happen, I’m sorry. It’s all okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

He was rambling, and Thomas was crossing the room before he could think better of it. He sat on the edge of the mattress at the foot of the bed, one hand coming to rest on Little’s shin, atop the thin sheet that covered his legs. It was pooled at his waist, twisted and disordered from the way Little had thrashed, wrapped in a nightmare. 

“When my brother was younger,” Thomas began, interrupting Little’s confused apologies, “he had night terrors frequently. He had an overactive imagination, you see? And the boys next door would lend him penny dreadfuls. I was always there to wake him, slept with one ear open just in case.” 

Thomas didn’t look at Little as he spoke. He kept his eyes trained on the flicker of the candlelight. He didn’t want to embarrass Little in his moment of vulnerability, but he also didn’t want to leave. Not when Little’s breathing was much too fast, not when he pawed at his chest as though he was drowning, or just learning to breathe. 

Thomas passed his thumb over the jut of Little’s ankle, then back again. 

“I used to sleep in his bed more often than my own, I believe. It’s better when someone’s there, or at least that’s what he said. We were very young.” 

Little shuddered. Thomas felt the motion through the shift in the mattress, the twitch in Little’s ankle. He kept up the ministrations of his thumb. Back and forth. 

“When we returned from our voyage, it was my turn to get the night terrors. My brother was there to wake me, but he’s a grown man now. Suppose he didn’t think it was fitting to climb into my bed like when we were boys. That was okay. It was good enough to know he was there.” 

Little sighed, half groan. Thomas chanced him a glance and watched as he slumped back against his pillows, hands rubbing over his face. 

“Christ almighty,” Little said, voice gruff. “My heart’s going a mile a minute. I really am sorry, I didn’t want to wake you.” 

“Think nothing of it,” Thomas asked. “I can stay, if you’d like.” 

“You needn’t,” Little dropped his hands and met Thomas’s gaze. “Thank you for talking with me, though.” 

“Of course,” Thomas patted Little’s ankle, then stood. “Sleep well.” 

Thomas left the room, closing the door softly behind him. He felt crestfallen by the outcome, but he hadn’t truly expected Little to let him stay. They weren’t brothers, they were grown men, it wasn’t proper to sleep in one another’s beds even if it was only to chase away night terrors. 

He’d helped Little calm down. Hopefully, sleep would find him peacefully now. That was the best Thomas could have done. 

If there was never to be any true intimacy between them, platonic or otherwise, Thomas would still rather be the more loving one. 

* * *

Embarrassed by the previous night’s events, Edward found his way to the library at the crack of dawn and closed the door tight. He stayed there throughout the morning, forgoing breakfast entirely. He rustled restlessly with books, shuffled around unread letters from his sister, and smoked his pipe. 

_ I can stay, if you’d like.  _

What a thing it would have been to say yes. What a selfish, self-indulgent, delicious thing. 

Edward hadn’t been able to sleep a wink after Jopson left. Not for memory of the dream -- it had been an ill formed thing, half memory, half wretched imagination -- but for the memory of Jopson in his room, darkness heavy around them, his face illuminated by the flicker of the candle. 

His hand, warm and strong on his shin. 

His voice, so comforting and compassionate. Sharing stories of his youth, grounding Edward to the present moment. 

_ I can stay, if you’d like.  _

There was a knock at the door. Edward startled, and his heartbeat quickened for fear that Jopson stood on the other side. He called for the visitor to enter, and steeled himself. 

It was Mrs. Hathaway. She entered with a tea tray and a curious expression. 

“I hoped you were here,” she said. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you all afternoon.” 

“Thank you,” Edward said as she set the tray on his desk. 

“Might I ask about dinner, sir? Would duck or chicken be preferred?”

“Either. Wait, no, chicken. Thomas doesn’t like duck.” 

Edward wasn’t sure how he’d known that. A tidbit pulled from their conversation on the porch, perhaps? Or some other stray detail littered in a different conversation entirely, one that Edward had snatched up and filed away in his mind. 

“Very good, sir.” Mrs. Hathaway turned to leave, before turning back to Edward. “If I may, sir, is everything right between you and Mr. Jopson?” 

Edward stiffened. 

“Whatever do you mean? Of course it is. Jopson and I are friends -- colleagues, even. His stay here is a matter of his health--” 

“Sir,” Mrs. Hathaway said gently, stopping his voice in his throat. “I only meant has anything happened to upset the two of you? Poor Mr. Jopson has spent the day pacing the den, and you’ve been locked away in here. I rather liked it better when the two of you were laughing on the porch like a pair of chattering starlings.”

“Oh,” Edward said, shoulders slumping. “Right. Everything is fine, Evelyn. I only had some business to attend to here. I’ll be with him shortly.”

Mrs. Hathaway tipped her head politely and left the room. 

Edward sank his head into his hands the moment the door shut behind her. He didn’t know what had gotten into him. Nothing untoward had passed between himself and Jopson the previous night. He was embarrassed about his dreams, certainly, and regretted that it had woken Jopson, but that should have been the end of it. He couldn’t say why he felt as though he was toeing a precipice, as though he had been so close to making a terrible mistake. 

Jopson had offered. Edward hadn’t solicited anything from him. Jopson had offered out of the goodness of his heart. He’d compared Edward to his brother. If that wasn’t evidence enough that Jopson thought of the interaction as entirely platonic, then Edward didn’t know what other proof he needed. 

Edward would have been perfectly satisfied spending the rest of the night in the library, running over the same interaction a thousand different ways, examining it from every angle until he’d convinced himself nothing was amiss. But it wouldn’t be kind to leave Jopson alone, wondering if he’d somehow offended Edward. 

Mrs. Hathaway had been quite right. Jopson was pacing the den. He jerked his head toward the doorway at Edward’s approach, and transformed immediately under Edward’s gaze. He schooled his face into a pleasant, unexpectant expression, and softened the slope of his shoulders. 

“Edward,” he greeted. “Finished working?” 

“Yes,” Edward said. He gestured awkward as he tried to come up with an excuse. “I had some letters to write, you know. For the estate.” 

“Of course.” Jopson nodded, as though that was in any way a good explanation for his distance all morning. Previously, all of Edward’s estate work had been done in Jopson’s presence, usually with a great deal of complaining and questioning on Edward’s part. “Are you free for the evening, then?” 

“I am. I had wondered if you might want to play a round of chess?” 

“Be prepared to lose, Mr. Little,” Jopson challenged with a smirk. “I’m rather good at chess.” 

Edward quirked an eyebrow and couldn’t help but smile. He should have guessed as much. He was willing to wager Jopson was ‘rather good’ at most things. 

Edward didn’t lose as spectacularly as he thought he would, but then, he did wonder if Jopson was only holding back to not bruise his ego any more than it’d been the night before. 

They didn’t talk about Edward’s night terrors. They talked about the way Cicero stretched in the sliver of sun that broke through the afternoon rain, their mutual abhorrence for the game of Hearts, the way Fitzjames and Le Vesconte took their tea with an unimaginable amount of sugar. Edward was laughing soon enough, and it was as though all tension had drained from their interactions. 

It was a rather miraculous ability Jopson had, to make Edward feel at ease the moment he caught Jopson’s eye. Edward wondered if that was more a marking of Jopson’s countenance, or Edward’s own. 

After dinner they parted ways for the evening. Just before Edward turned into his bedroom, Jopson caught his wrist and said, “Edward. I just wanted to say, I don’t think ill of you for suffering bad dreams. I suffer them, too. I only hope you’ll allow me to offer you whatever comfort you desire.” 

Edward wanted to say,  _ You mustn’t offer what you cannot deliver.  _ Instead, he said, “Thank you.” 

Jopson nodded and released Edward’s wrist. 

Behind the closed door of his bedroom, Edward paced a refrain into his mind.  _ He only offers the way a brother might. You mustn’t take from it meaning he does not intend.  _ Edward reminded himself plainly, and in the simplest way he could that the emotions Edward felt were one sided. If he must have Jopson in his life, then he must be content with being the more loving one. 

* * *

The next few days were spent in a comfortable routine. They took their breakfasts together, then spent the afternoons reading in the library or going over tasks on Little’s to-do lists. The weather was cloudy and it rained throughout the days. When the sun was brave enough to break through the clouds, they soaked up her rays in the back garden. 

It was a quiet sort of peace. Thomas found that he had finally tasted that little slice of what Little called tranquility. Rain pattering on the window of the lakehouse, the unkempt grass swaying in the wind outside the windows. Whiskey decanter, half empty, sitting beside open books on the table in the den. Tea, grown cold, beside him as he stretched on the couch, Cicero snoozing against his shins. Little, snoring in an armchair, pipe still in his hand. 

It was perfect harmony, perfect serenity. Thomas should have known it would come to an end. 

The knock on the door startled Little from his half-conscious state. He jerked upright in his armchair and met Thomas’s gaze from across the room. 

“Did you order something?” Thomas asked. 

“No,” Little stood and straightened his shirt, glancing at Thomas as though to say,  _ Do I look like I was just asleep in that chair there?  _ “At least I don’t think I did.” 

Thomas stayed in the den as Edward went to answer the door. It didn’t feel proper to appear as his elbow like a housewife. 

“There you are,” a female voice said from the entry hall. “Heaven above, Ned, we thought you’d dropped off the face of the Earth. Or else left to God knows where without telling us.” 

There was a bustle of footsteps and a man’s voice saying, “Edward. Sorry to drop by like this.” 

“Uncle Ned,” that was a girl’s voice, no, two voices. The other echoed the name and there was the sound of a shuffle, arms thrown around Little’s neck, if Thomas had to guess. “Mother said the rain would stop soon. We hope it does, we wanted to go to the lake.” 

“We wrote you a letter, Edward.” The woman’s voice was sharp, scolding. The footsteps drew closer to the den. “Christ almighty, it seems as though you somehow lost the ability to  _ read  _ on that voyage of yours. Good lord, who’s this?” 

Thomas was on his feet, hands behind his back, staring at the family that had just stepped into the room. The woman in front was wearing a bright purple dress with black trim, her matching hat was struck at an angle. She had the same chesnut hair Little did, the same dark eyes and sharp nose. The expression on her face was familiar to Thomas, Little wore it often. Brows knit, one eyebrow slightly raised.

There was a man beside her. He was very tall, with a thin mustache. Though he had dark features, they were not the same as Little’s. A longer face, a sharper jaw. 

Thomas caught sight of Little just behind the rest, both his arms captured by two young girls. They didn’t seem to care about Thomas’s presence in the room, too enraptured by their uncle. 

The man stepped forward and stuck out a hand toward Thomas. 

“Anthony Hughes,” he said byway of greeting.

“Thomas Jopson,” Thomas said, shaking his hand. 

“You didn’t tell us you had a guest, Edward,” the woman said over her shoulder. “You might’ve written us and told us so. I’m Beatrice, dear. Edward’s sister.” 

“Glad to meet you,” Thomas said. 

Little broke free of the rest of them and came to the front of the group, angled so he could look between Thomas and Beatrice. 

“This is Jopson,” Little said, as though Thomas hadn’t just introduced himself. “He’s a friend of mine. He’s staying here for a bit, fresh air, and all that.” 

“Well, there’s plenty of it here,” Beatrice laughed. She began removing her gloves. “Edward, will you call for tea? Evelyn must be around here somewhere, right? And whatever have you done with the garden? It looks a fright. Mr. Jopson must think us a family of heathens. How do you find the place?” 

She was turned toward Thomas now, handing off her gloves to Little, who wrinkled his nose and turned helplessly to find somewhere to set them. Thomas itched to take them from him, to fold them politely and place them in the coat closet along with Anthony’s coat. He had to remind himself this wasn’t his house, and it wasn’t his job to attend to the guests in such a way. 

“It’s a wonderful house,” Thomas said. “And I consider myself very fortunate that Commander Little has been kind enough to offer his hospitality.” 

“ _ Commander Little _ ?” Beatrice repeated, then looked toward her brother. “Where did you find this charming little creature, Edward? You must be one of his Navy boys, yes? I know it by the look of you. All you Navy men have the same stiff shoulders. Well, I’m glad you like the house, despite the way Edward seems determined to let it fall to pieces. You’ve seen the lake, I expect?” 

“Meaning to talk to you about that, Edward,” Anthony turned toward Little, tossing his coat over his own forearm. “I’ve been itching for a good day on the lake. We’re only here for the weekend, of course, but I was hoping we could--”

“Tea, Edward?” Beatrice repeated.

“Wherever  _ is  _ Mrs. Hathaway?” Anthony asked. “The girls were hoping for some of her lemon cakes.” 

“Oh, yes, please Uncle, can you ask her to make some?” one of the girls said. 

Anthony ushered Little toward the hallway to find Mrs. Hathaway. Just before turning away he shot Thomas an apologetic look, but Thomas only smiled in return and turned back to Beatrice. Thomas didn’t seem to be suffering half as much as Little in the present circumstance. 

Beatrice questioned him a mile a minute, gesturing for Thomas to sit with her in the den.  _ Had he been here long? What did he mean he hadn’t seen the lake? Hadn’t Edward offered? What had gotten into him lately? _

“You were with Uncle Ned on his adventure?” one of the girls asked. She seemed the younger of the two. They had taken up spots beside one another on the couch. 

“This is Daphne,” Beatrice said, gesturing to the younger. She seemed about twelve, but Thomas always had a hard time judging age. “And this is Elizabeth. Beth, we call her.” 

“It’s wonderful to meet you two,” Thomas said. “Yes, I was with your uncle on his most recent voyage.” 

“Then you’re an adventurer, too,” Elizabeth said. She seemed a few years older than her sister. “Will you tell us stories of it? Uncle Ned never does.” 

The nickname was so fond on the girls’ lips it warmed Thomas’s heart. 

“What would you like to hear? I’ve seen both ends of the Earth, north and south. And I’ll tell you, the most wondrous thing I saw was the ice shelves in the Southern Ocean…” 

The girls hung on his every word. Thomas was still speaking when Little returned, Anthony at his shoulder, tea on the tray in his arms. He looked miserable, glancing at Thomas across the room. He offered them all tea, but Thomas quickly took the tray from him and set it on the table, pouring for all of them. He had seen Little try to serve, it wasn’t a kind sight. 

“It sounds so incredible, to see things no one else has seen,” Daphne said. 

“I hope to marry a Navy man,” Elizabeth informed Thomas, a slight tilt to her jaw, as if challenging him to laugh. “They look so charming in their coats.” 

“Better marry a lieutenant then,” Thomas said. Little caught his eye over the rim of his tea cup. “Even I find their coats to be most fetching.” 

Little snorted in his tea and quickly covered it with a cough. 

“Were you a lieutenant, too?” Elizabeth asked. 

Thomas opened his mouth to say,  _ Captain’s Steward,  _ but Little beat him to it. 

“Yes,” Little said. “We served on the same ship.” 

“Dreadful business,” Beatrice said. “Glad you returned in one piece, Thomas. May I call you Thomas?” 

“Certainly, miss,” Thomas said. 

“Well, we’re very sorry to interrupt your visit here. Truly, had Edward written to tell us of your stay we wouldn’t have bothered. You know, I once arrived on the doorstep just as Edward was heading to the post to tell me not to come.  _ You should have written sooner,  _ I told him.  _ Now you’re stuck with me. _ ” 

“Some people wait for a response before inviting themselves,” Little said. He sounded sulky. 

“Well, some people forget that I own the same share of this house as you do. I have a key, you know?” 

It was quite unlike the lazy morning Thomas and Little had spent in the den. Now it was filled with conversation, the tinking of tea cups, Lysander yapping and licking at Anthony’s hands. The girls asked Thomas endless questions about his voyages, and Thomas answered honestly, but without any of the morbid details. He talked of the wild frontier of the sea, the thrill of seeing the sun glimmer on an endless expanse of ice. Anthony asked Little about fishing, and the state of the docks. Beatrice flittered between conversations, her sharp eyes darting between Thomas and Little. 

Dinner was just as boisterous. Little brought an extra table into the dining nook which they pushed together. Even still, they were elbow to elbow, passing the wine decanter around the table. Thomas was caught in conversation, between the girls on either side of him, and Beatrice across. Anthony and Little sat at opposite heads of the table. 

It wasn’t until the table had been cleared that Beatrice disappeared to put the girls to bed and Anthony said something about finding his way to a glass of brandy that Thomas had a moment to breathe. He found that Little had disappeared sometime before Beatrice. He denied Anthony’s request for a nightcap and went off in search of Little. 

He found him on the front porch, leaning against the railing, pipe in hand. He glanced up at Thomas’s approach, and the tightness in his shoulders seemed to relax. 

“I’m terribly sorry for all of this,” Little said. “I did see her letter come through to post, but forgot to read it entirely. I never would have sprung this upon you without your permission.” 

“What is it you’re apologizing for?” Thomas asked, leaning on the railing beside Little. Their shoulders brushed. “The company, or not having me all to yourself?” 

The question startled a laugh out of Little. He looked down at Thomas, who offered a sheepish smile. 

“A bit of both, I suppose.” Little’s smile was just as sheepish. 

Thomas reached forward and took the pipe from between Little’s fingers, puffing his own breath on it before returning it. Their shoulders brushed again. Thomas didn’t pull away. Neither did Little. 

* * *

The sun showed its face the following day, as though Beatrice had willed it to be. She insisted on a trip to the lake, chastising Edward for not taking Jopson sooner. Edward had a thousand excuses, the least of all that Jopson had a bad knee, and he hadn’t wanted to press. Edward didn’t want to reveal that to his sister though, should Jopson find shame in it. 

“We needn’t go if you aren’t up for it,” Edward said to Jopson, low enough to not be overheard. 

“I’m quite alright, truly,” Jopson said. 

“Should you change your mind, you need only tell me. I can piggyback you the way home.” 

“Careful what you offer,” Jopson chuckled. “I might fake an injury just so I needn’t walk.” 

They packed a lunch and readied themselves for a day at the lake. The landscape was beset with rolling hills and windswept trees. The grass was thick and verdant green, peppered with the white and blue heads of wildflowers. It was a pleasant day, the sun high in the sky. Edward had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 

Edward carried the lunch basket, while Daphne and Elizabeth each took one of Jopson’s hands. His nieces were enamoured with Jopson. Edward found it terribly endearing. He let them swing his hands, walking a few paces ahead of the others. 

“Careful with him, girls,” Edward warned. “He’s here for his health, not to be mauled to death by my nieces.” 

“You’re too soft, Uncle Ned,” Elizabeth called. “Thomas is an adventurer.” 

Beatrice and Anthony walked beside Edward. Anthony smoked from his pipe, fishing rods over his shoulder and tackle box in one hand. It was amazing he could juggle it all at once, but then, he was a man devoted to his pastimes: smoking and fishing. 

Beatrice took Edward’s arm the way they used to as children. 

“Forgive me for intruding while you had company,” Beatrice said. She didn’t sound sorry at all. “I know you like your secrecy.” 

“There are no secrets to be had, Bee. Jopson is a friend who found himself in need of somewhere quiet…” 

“And you were in possession of somewhere quiet, in need of a friend?” 

Edward snorted. She was right, of course. He hated that about his sister. She was almost always right. They were of an age with one another, and Edward had no secrets from her. She weaseled them out of him one way or another, no matter how he tried to keep them hidden. She knew he couldn’t stand mother’s blueberry tarts, though he pretended he did. She knew of his hatred for the theatre, though he went when it was asked of him. 

She knew of his first kiss, behind the stables, with the stableboy who’d taken a liking to him at fourteen. She kept this secret to herself, of course. Edward could never thank her enough for that.

The lake was still when they arrived, a blueish green in the sunlight. The very color of Jopson’s eyes. 

Anthony began to set up the fishing lines while the girls removed their shoes and stockings, dipping their toes in the water, legs dangling over the side of the dock. 

“Thomas, do join us,” they beckoned. Jopson smiled at Edward before bending to roll up his own pant legs. 

Beatrice dragged deck chairs from the boathouse, which had never as long as Edward recalled housed a boat, and settled herself in the shade with a bottle of sparkling wine. She offered some to Jopson, who took a small glass and drank it as he sat between the girls. 

“I learned it on the pianoforte,” Elizabeth was telling Jopson. Edward hadn’t heard where the conversation began, listening half-heartedly as he was to what Anthony was saying about fishing bait. “I’ll play it for you if you ever visit us in London.” 

“I would be much honored,” Jopson said. 

“ _ Raspberries,  _ I tell you,” Anthony was saying. “To catch sturgeon, he said. Lost his marbles, if you ask me.” 

Edward took a deep breath to steady himself, looking away from Jopson to the fishing rod being shoved into his hands by his brother-in-law. Jopson was too great a distraction to him, out here in the sunshine. He had to focus his attentions on his family, or else be caught in his own.  _ Jopson is a friend.  _

Edward dipped his line into the water, and took a drag of the cigarette Anthony lit for him. 

They didn’t catch a single fish. After an hour or so, the girls got tired of playing in the water and dragged Jopson to the shade of an elm tree where they taught him to play A Sailor Went to Sea, a game that seemed to involve a great deal of clapping and laughter.

They all shared lunch on the docks. Edward sat beside Jopson, cross legged, his knee brushing Jopson’s every now and again. After lunch the girls grew bored of their game and dozed against Jopson’s shoulder in the shade of the elm tree. 

“You can shake them off, Thomas,” Beatrice said. “They needn’t use you as a pillow.” 

“I’m quite alright,” Jopson laughed. 

Edward had been used as a pillow by them many times. It was a nice sensation, but one’s arms did tend to wind up numb after a while. 

When Anthony finally gave up on the fish with a, “Damn it all. What have you done Edward? Fished them all out already?” they packed up their lunch remnants and the fishing poles and headed back toward the house. 

Daphne yawned and asked Jopson for a piggy back ride to the house. Elizabeth looked cross, as though if anyone should get a ride it should be her. 

“Sorry girls, but my knee isn’t what it used to be,” Jopson said. He cast Edward a glance, who read the question in his face plainly. 

“Good thing mine is just as good as it’s always been,” Edward said, scooping Daphne up and onto his back. She shrieked and slapped at his shoulder before draping her arms around his neck. Anthony offered his own services for Elizabeth, which left Jopson carrying the lunch basket and fishing gear. 

As they walked, Beatrice lamented the clouds that threatened to cover the sky. 

“I just hope there’s no rain for our journey home tomorrow,” she said. Edward was only half listening. He was desperately aware that Jopson was falling a step behind them, that he was favoring his left leg every so slightly. 

It was paining him, Edward knew. He should have known better than to allow Jopson to hike all the way out here, the girls tugging him along like a ragdoll. He should have insisted Jopson stayed at the house, but what kind of friend would he be to tell him to stay while they had fun without him? No, Edward should have stayed, too. Should have let Beatrice go to the lake without him, and remained at the house with Jopson. In the den. In their comfortable, companionable solace. 

As they crested the last of the hills the house came into sight. Beatrice was just saying something about how overgrown the path had become when Edward heard a slight gasp from behind him. He turned just in time to see Jopson lose his footing. He couldn’t put his hands out to balance himself, loaded as they were by the basket and fishing box. He fell on his knee hard, the sound of bone colliding with stone echoing in Edward’s ear. 

“Oh, dear,” Beatrice said.

Edward slid Daphne from his back and darted forward, sliding to his knees beside Jopson and grabbing his shoulders to steady him. 

“I’m alright,” Jopson said, but there was a tight grimace on his face. Edward took the basket from him just as Anthony arrived beside them, having let Elizabeth down from his own back. 

“Come on girls,” Beatrice said. “Thomas will be alright. Let’s see if Evelyn has finished those lemon cakes, yes?” 

Beatrice ushered the girls toward the house. Anthony said, “Bad fall, Thomas. Anything I can do to help?” 

“Take this,” Edward said, shoving the basket into Anthony’s arms. “We’ll be fine.” 

“I’m okay,” Jopson repeated, but he didn’t move to stand. Edward returned his hands to Jopson’s biceps. 

“Right-o,” Anthony said, turning quickly and jogging after his wife. 

“Does it hurt?” Edward asked. “Can you walk?” 

“It’s fine,” Jopson said, though his voice was tight. “Just lost my balance. It’s okay.” 

“Should I call for a doctor? Or run to the house for painkillers?” 

“No, no,” Jopson said. “Here, can you help me up?” 

Edward rose slowly, his hands wrapped around Jopson’s biceps. The muscle was strong beneath his palms. Edward decidedly  _ didn’t  _ file that away in his mind. Certainly not. 

Jopson reached for Edward’s elbows, and they rose together. Leaning heavily against Edward, Jopson stretched his bad leg and winced. 

“Come on then,” Edward said, keeping one hand on Jopson but dropping the other to turn, offering his back to him just as he had his niece. “Your turn now.” 

“You can’t be serious,” Jopson laughed. 

“Deadly,” Edward said, glancing over his shoulder. “Come on, or else I’ll carry you like a bride. I think you’ll like this better.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” Jopson huffed, but he stepped forward, and it was enough for Edward to press back into him, scooping his hands under Jopson’s thighs to hoist him on his back. Jopson was heavier then he looked, and he immediately began to squirm. It nearly unbalanced Edward. 

“Stop wiggling,” Edward laughed. “Be still.” 

“You surprised me,” Jopson complained, lurching himself higher on Edward’s back and tightening his legs around Edward’s waist. “There.” 

“You’re heavy,” Edward said as he began the last stretch toward the house. 

“And you’re incredibly polite.” There was sarcasm in his tone, a chastisement for Edward's comment, but there was honesty too.

Edward snorted. Jopson was so warm against his back. He was lean, too. Composed of far more muscle than Edward had anticipated. Jopson always seemed such a delicate thing, so poised and well-pressed. Edward knew it was folly to think that way. He’d seen Jopson pulling the boats, seen him shove men to safety and heave ropes half his weight. 

“You’re sure you’ll be okay?” Edward asked. “I can write for the doctor, truly.” 

“It’s fine, Edward,” Jopson huffed. Edward felt his breath on the back of his jaw, the words resounding in his ear. “You’re a worrier.” 

“To the bedroom with you,” Edward said, toeing open the backdoor. “I’m not letting my nieces overwhelm you again.” 

“They were fine,” Jopson protested. “You can let me down.” 

Edward didn’t. He marched straight to the bedroom at the end of the hall and dropped Jopson on the bed. That startled a laugh out of the other man, who’s expression would have been cross if it wasn’t for the smile that graced his lips. 

“Will you let me look at it, at least?” Edward asked. “That was a hard fall. And on stone, too.” 

Jopson was huffy and exasperated about the entire ordeal, but rolled up his pant leg nonetheless and let Edward poke at his knee. It was bruised and swollen, but there was no immediate injury otherwise. Edward let his gaze linger on the scar there. The scar that had reopened when they were on the shale, the scar that had caused infection in the joint and nearly cost Jopson his leg. 

“I’ll fetch you a cold compress. And dinner, as well. You shouldn’t be walking on it.” 

“Oh, don’t put me in timeout like a child. I’ll take dinner with the lot of you.” 

“Beatrice can eat with her family. I’ll take mine in here with you.” 

There was no room for argument in Edward’s tone. He patted Jopson’s shin and left the room. Beatrice had gathered everyone else in the dining room where Mrs. Hathaway was serving them dinner. Beatrice hurried to Edward’s side just as he finished asking for two plates for himself and Jopson to take into the bedroom, as well as a cold compress. 

“Is he alright?” Beatrice asked. 

“He'll be alright," Edward said. "His knee has been paining him for a while, he should know not to push himself so hard.” 

“Now why would he do that, when he has someone like you to so gallantly come to his aid?” Beatrice asked with a wink. She returned to the dining nook to be with the others. Edward took the tray Evelyn offered him and returned to the room. 

Edward made Thomas take the compress first, then offered him his dinner plate. Edward sat at the foot of the bed, cross-legged, and set his own plate across his lap. 

“I feel like a child,” Jopson huffed.

“Well, you did spend all day playing with the girls,” Edward said. “Serves you right if you should feel childish.” 

“Tell me, Edward,” Jopson teased. “Who’s benefit is this really for? Me, or yourself, so you needn’t dine with your family twice in one weekend?” 

“Yours of course,” Edward chuckled. “How dare you accuse me of taking advantage of your injury? Now, eat your supper.” 

Jopson bit his lip, a grin only halfway suppressed. He did eat his supper, shaking his head at Edward. Edward would have called it fond, if he was less inclined to fool himself. 

_ The more loving one,  _ Edward reminded himself.  _ It’s enough. It must be enough.  _


	3. Chapter 3

When Thomas awoke the following day, his knee ached something dreadful. He laid in the bed for several long moments, eyes trained on the ceiling, wondering if he’d somehow perished at the lakeside and everything that followed afterward was only a dream. 

Little had carried him back to the house, had run his hands along his arms and hoisted him on his back like Thomas weighed nothing. They’d eaten dinner together in his bedroom, eyes only for each other. 

There was such worry in Little’s expression. Such tender care and nervous caution. It was all for Thomas. He couldn’t trick himself into thinking it had merely been anxiety at his own troubles or for the situation in general, it had all been for Thomas, all because he’d taken a fall and bumped  his knee. 

The worry was underserved, but not unwelcome. Thomas relished in it, loved the affection of it. 

He hated himself for that. 

There was a knock at the door sometime later, and Thomas propped himself on his elbows. He called for the visitor to enter, and Little stood there, one shoulder leaning against the doorframe. 

“Good morning,” Little said. He wore his maroon dressing gown, tied at the waist. His hair was mussed with sleep. “Do you want to take breakfast in here, or in the den?” 

“The den, please.” Thomas swung his legs over the side of the bed, and bit back a wince at the jostling of his knee. “You’re not allowed to carry me there, though.” 

“Fine,” Little said. “But I’ll walk with you nonetheless.” 

Thomas let Little take his arm, and was truly grateful for the assistance. He was able to lean against Little, use him as a crutch as he donned his own dressing gown and fixed his hair in the mirror. Little hovered beside him, hands on Thomas’s arm, or else hovering near his hip. 

The den was empty when they arrived. Little gave Thomas his pick of the seats, and Thomas chose his favorite sofa near the fireplace. Mrs. Hathaway brought tea and fresh bread for breakfast, asking if Thomas was alright. She didn’t treat him half as delicately as Little did. 

“A bad knee at your age?” she asked with a chuckle. “Poor dear, you’ll be abed by the time you’re my age.” 

“I’m afraid so,” Thomas smiled.

“Edward, be a dear,” Mrs. Hathaway said. “Don’t make him pour his own tea.” 

“I hadn’t meant to,” Little grumbled. 

Little settled into the armchair beside Thomas, pouring them each a cup of tea and taking up the morning newspaper. He passed Thomas sections once he’d finished reading, commenting on articles with his usual derision. 

Soon there was a bustling in the house, Beatrice and her family taking breakfast in the dining nook before joining them in the den. Beatrice passed a glance over at Thomas, still in his dressing gown. 

“Feeling better, then, Thomas?” she asked. She didn’t wait for an answer, settling herself across from Thomas and tossing one leg over her knee. “I have a bad elbow myself. Tennis, you see? I can predict the rain two days off, the way it starts to ache.” 

The girls took spots on the couch beside Thomas. Elizabeth poured him a second cup of tea, and Daphne asked if he’d like a book to read. She disappeared to the library before Thomas could answer and returned with an armful of books that she claimed were her favorites. 

“Mother says you hurt your knee on your voyage,” Elizabeth said. 

“Was it a bad injury?” Daphne asked. 

“I actually injured it when I was nearly of an age with you two. The voyage only worsened it, I’m afraid. I don’t think it will ever be what it once was.” 

“Her name is Florence, Edward,” Beatrice was saying at the same time. “I’ve told you a dozen times. You had better learn it before the wedding, or you’ll be the joke of the family.” 

“Well, I’ve never met her, have I? I was away at sea when they became engaged.” 

“Oh, and it’s impossible to invite your brother and his bride-to-be to visit?” 

Little snorted. “The wedding had better not be in France.” 

“Of course it will be,” Beatrice laughed. “She’s from Paris, Edward.” 

“Oh, I so hope we get to see Paris,” Elizabeth said. 

“Just because the romance of the French is lost on you, dear brother, the same is not so for everyone.” 

“Have you ever been to Paris, Thomas?” Daphne asked. 

“Not yet,” Thomas said. Little watched him, a considerate look on his face. “I hope to go someday.” 

Beatrice and her family left in the early afternoon. The girls kissed Thomas’s cheek goodbye and said they hoped to see him again soon. Anthony shook his hand and said, “No need to get up, old chap. Formalities are nothing between friends.” Little followed them to the door and said his goodbyes there. 

When he returned he paused a moment and looked at Thomas from across the den, before flopping face down on the sofa opposite Thomas. His bare feet stuck off the edge. 

“Don’t talk to me for at least a quarter hour,” Little said, voice muffled by the pillow he was buried in. “I need to recover.” 

Thomas laughed, but obeyed. He took up one of the books Daphne had brought him, but he wasn’t truly focusing on it. He was watching the wall clock, giving Little his allotted quarter hour. His thoughts were with the man on the sofa and the family in the carriage rambling toward the train station. There was much love there, despite the front Little put on. Beatrice was a charming woman, and Anthony seemed a good man. The girls were precious, lively things. 

Thomas felt like he’d intruded on something sacred, but then, they’d invited him in without a question, hadn’t they? 

“Am I permitted to speak now?” Thomas asked when the quarter hour was up. Little groaned and flopped to one side, pulling his feet up onto the couch. He laid on his side, watching Thomas. “Your family is very charming.” 

“To you, maybe,” Little said. He looked tired. Thomas wondered if he’d been sleeping fitfully again, or if entertaining family just took its toll on Little. 

“Do they visit often?”

“More than I’d like. I think Beatrice likes dropping by unannounced, to check that I haven’t dropped dead.” 

Thomas frowned. He wondered if Beatrice had a reason to fear that as a reality, or if Little was just being morbid. 

“It’s good of them to look in on you.” 

“I suppose,” Little sighed and turned on his back, eyes on the ceiling. “Though I do wish it hadn’t happened now. And I’m sorry about your knee. You needn’t have let my nieces drag you around like that.” 

“I didn’t mind,” Thomas said honestly. “I like spending time with family. And with children.” 

“You’re rather good with them, you know?” Little tipped his head to glance at Thomas before looking back to the ceiling. “You have the right temperament for it.” 

Thomas sipped his tea, lukewarm now. 

“I’d have liked to have children someday,” Thomas said eventually. He hadn’t meant for the words to sound so sad on his lips, but they did. 

The words seemed to inspire something in Little. He sat up and looked at Thomas, feet once again resting on the floor. There was a slight downturn to his lips. 

“Why shouldn’t you have them someday?” Little asked. “You’re young. There’s still time.” 

Jopson was thirty two, but Little wasn’t entirely wrong. Had he been a different man, there might have still been time. It wouldn’t happen, though. Thomas knew that. He knew enough of his own disposition to know as much. 

“One needs a wife to have children,” Thomas said. 

“And why shouldn’t you have a wife?” 

“Men like me make very poor husbands.” 

“On the contrary,” Little said, jostling one leg so that his knee bounced. “I think a man like you would make a fine husband, to any woman that would have you.” 

“Ah,” Thomas said. He leaned back on the sofa, hands clasped over his stomach, legs stretched in front of him. “Perhaps therein lies the problem.” 

It wouldn’t do to say more. Little was understanding and accepting, but Thomas knew everyone had limits to their morals. He didn’t want to admit the true nature of his condition and be turned out on the doorstep, not today, not when he felt so content being alone with Little once more. 

Thomas chanced a glance to Little, who looked stricken. He schooled his face into something more relaxed under Thomas’s gaze though. 

“And you?” Thomas asked. “Why have you yet to take a wife?” 

“I never will,” Little said matter-of-factly. It seemed a simple fact to him. “As you say, men like us make for poor husbands.” 

Thomas chewed on his lip and nodded. He felt that there was something unsaid between them. There was an understanding Thomas took from the words, but it seemed impossible. He didn’t want to assume anything untoward. Surely Little only meant Navy men like them, or else men with troubled pasts and uncertain futures. 

“Pity,” Thomas said. “At least there are nieces and nephews to fill the void of one’s own children.” 

“Indeed,” Little said. He leaned back against the sofa, head tipping backward to rest on the backrest. He closed his eyes. Thomas opened his book. 

The silence of the lakehouse was upon them again. Comforting, familiar. Rain began to patter against the window. 

* * *

That night Edward dreamt of the voyage. He was amongst the shale, everything pale blue and tan. He dreamt of Jopson, back to the sled, staring into the sky. “Can someone tell me if they also see that bird?” he asked. There was blood on his lips. Edward looked to the sky, and watched the bird soar a moment, before a bullet pierced its breast and it plummeted to the ground. 

Edward looked around for the shooter, but found the pistol in his own hand. Crozier’s pistol. 

He awoke with a start, a name on his lips.  _ Thomas.  _

There was a knock at the door. Trying to gather his senses, Edward rubbed a hand over his face and called for Jopson to enter. 

Jopson stood at the doorway, just as he had that first night. He watched for a moment, silent, silhouetted in the moonlight. 

“I’m sorry I woke you,” Edward said. 

“You didn’t. I was awake. Couldn’t sleep. In fact, I was just on my way to the den to read, if you’d care to join me.” 

The den sounded like exactly what Edward needed. Away from where the terrors had plagued him, tucked away in the warmth of the sofas. Jopson beside him. Not a bird in sight. 

Jopson led the way to the den, carrying with him a book he retrieved from his room. Edward lit a lamp in the den, and was pleased to see Jopson’s face, healthy, not a spot of blood on his lips. His eyes were bright, even in the low light of the room. 

Edward took a seat on his usual sofa. His heart was still beating much too fast. 

Jopson went to the opposing couch, but rather than settling there he merely retrieved the knit blanket folded on the cushion and came to sit beside Edward. He offered an edge of the blanket to Edward, who took it and draped it over his own knees. Jopson took his own edge with him, reclining against the arm of the sofa, his feet a hair's width from Edward’s thigh on the cushion. 

“Might I read aloud?” Jopson asked. 

“Please.” 

Jopson read aloud from a book of fairytales. His voice was soft, husky, terribly familiar. Edward tipped his head against the back of the sofa and allowed his eyes to flutter shut, wrapped in the warmth of Jopson’s voice. 

He fell asleep without meaning to. His last waking thought was that he hadn’t remembered grabbing a pillow, but he must have because he felt far too comfortable to be slumped on the arm of the couch. 

* * *

Thomas looked at the sleeping form in his lap and wondered what he was meant to do about it. He knew he must do something, for Little would be terribly embarrassed to wake with his cheek pressed to Thomas’s thigh. 

It had happened gradually. First he’d leaned against Thomas’s raised knees, head drooping. Then, with a snort of sleep, he’d tipped sideways, directly toward Thomas. Thomas had used one hand to guide Little, lowering him gently into his lap, dropping his knees so make a soft landing pad for Little. He’d raised one hand to Thomas’s shin in his sleep, cheek resting just above Thomas’s good knee. 

Carefully, and as silently as he could, Thomas closed his book and set it aside. He let his fingers fall to Little’s hair, burying in the silky softness he found there. 

In his sleep, Little pressed closer to Thomas’s hand, seeking warmth from the touch. 

Thomas allowed himself a moment’s self-indulgence. He stroked Little’s hair softly, looking at the man in his lap and relishing in not having to hide the affection on his face. 

Thomas sighed, then pulled his hand away and slipped from beneath Little, replacing his spot with a throw pillow. Thomas covered Little more fully with the blanket before turning out the light and returning to his own room. 

It was a difficult thing, leaving Little there. It would have been far easier to drift off to sleep on his own, Little’s body a comfortable weight against his own. The morning after would not have been such an easy thing, however. 

Little would have woken to embarrassment, or even anger and disgust. Thomas would have had to make some excuse, or else pack his bags and catch the next train home to London. 

Or, perhaps, Little would have woken to indifference. Perhaps that was the crueler outcome. Had he just shrugged and laughed it off the way brothers might, wouldn’t that have hurt all the worse? 

Far worse, indeed. A comfort Thomas would be allowed to have, but only because it could never grow into the thing Thomas so desperately ached for. 

_ The more loving one _ , Thomas reminded himself. He was allowed these stolen moments of pleasure, but only so long as he never expected anything from Little in return. 

It was becoming a more difficult thing the more that passed between them. Perhaps Thomas was better off returning to London. Perhaps he should quit Little’s life and be done with it. 

As he fell into sleep, wrapped in his own bed, Thomas thought of how soft Little’s hair had felt between his fingers. What joy he would feel if he were allowed to have that, feel that, without guilt or shame or fear. 

* * *

“I’ve a letter from the captain,” Edward said over breakfast. He was sorting through his mail, toast untouched. Jopson was spreading jam on a scone. He did it very methodically, making sure to reach every corner. 

“Oh?” 

Edward broke the seal and scanned through the letter. 

_ I hope you’ll choose to attend. It’s nothing spectacular, just a little celebration. Five years since we set sail, can you believe that? It was James’s idea, in truth. You know he can never pass up a good opportunity to spin a tall tale.  _

_ By the way, is Jopson with you? I wrote to his brother’s address but received a missive informing me he was no longer there. If he’s not with you, then I suppose I ought to send out a search party.  _

_ If he is there, tell him I expect him to attend, as well.  _

“He’s hosting a banquet,” Edward explained, passing the letter across to Jopson. “Did you not tell him you were here?” 

“Hm,” Jopson swallowed a bite of toast. “I didn’t tell anyone, in truth. I didn’t expect to stay so long.” 

“Well, we had better write him to let him know you’re well. Will you be wanting to attend?” 

An uncomfortable expression passed over Jopson’s face. He didn’t respond. The reaction struck Edward as quite strange. Jopson was far more sociable than Edward was, and had seemed to thrive at the Admiralty ceremony in June. Christ, had that really been half a year ago? 

“Do you not wish to see them?” Edward asked. “We needn’t attend if you don’t want to.” 

“I do want to,” Jopson said quickly. “It’s only that, if we’re returning to London then I ought to write my brother and plan for my return first. I’ve taken advantage of your hospitality long enough.” 

Panic gripped Edward’s chest. He hadn’t thought of that. If they were taking a train to London then it would make the most sense for Jopson to remain there and to return to his life as normal. His life in London. His life without Edward. 

“You needn’t return yet if you don’t want to. My hospitality has no limitation.” 

Thomas chuckled. “Oh? Is that why you were begging for your sister to remain another weekend?” 

“That’s family, it’s different,” Edward argued. “Your knee is still paining you.” 

“It always will, it will never quite heal.” 

Edward pushed his toast on his plate. He couldn’t meet Jopson’s eyes. Jopson sounded as though he wanted to laugh. 

“You haven’t a job in London.” 

“That’s because I haven’t been looking for one. Besides, I haven’t a job here, either.” 

“The garden still needs upkeep, and the curtains need replacing.” 

“You haven’t let me help with that, even when I offer.” 

That was that, then. Every offer Little had made had been met with a counter argument. If Jopson wanted to return to London, Edward wouldn’t stop him. 

Edward huffed, knowing he sounded petulant, but unable to stop himself. 

“Well, fine then. If you’d like to return, far be it from me to keep you here.” 

Edward snatched the letter from where it rested on the table and rustled it open, gaze vacant as he looked upon Crozier’s words. 

_ Is Jopson with you?  _

Not any longer. 

When Jopson spoke his voice was very soft, gentle. “Would you like me to stay?” 

Edward’s heart quickened in his chest. He didn’t look up for the letter, but he could feel Jopson’s gaze upon him. 

“Yes,” Edward said. “Quite immensely.” 

“Then I’ll stay.” 

Edward wrote back to Crozier that very morning informing him that both he and Jopson would be attending. 

_ Post script _ , he wrote.  _ Jopson is here with me. You can send all future letters to this address and I’ll ensure he gets them.  _

* * *

Little made all the arrangements. The carriage, the train, the stay at Beatrice’s house for the weekend of the banquet. Thomas was quite looking forward to seeing the girls again. He thought he might even drop in on his brother while they were in town, just to greet them and make sure they knew all mail could be forwarded to Little’s lakehouse. 

Thomas was, all things considered, much more excited than Little seemed to be. As the day drew nearer, Little’s walls seemed to be going up. He spoke less, frowned more. He was sullen and taciturn the entire ride to the station, but Thomas set out to remedy that the moment they entered the train. They sat beside one another and Thomas kept a steady narration going, whispering gossip into Little’s ear. 

Eventually Little’s mouth quirked into the ghost of a smile. Thomas considered that a triumph. 

Anthony met them at the train station, carriage waiting. 

“Thomas, good to see you lad,” Anthony greeted, clapping Thomas on the shoulder. He suspected Anthony was at least a few years younger than himself. It should be Thomas calling him  _ lad. _ “Edward. I picked up cigars from Sandy’s, no, no, I won’t hear an excuse. The both of you will share in my cigars and scotch when we get back to the townhouse, no argument.” 

It felt strange to ride to the townhouse beside Little. A house he’d already visited, months previously. He recalled sitting across from Little and watching him fret over whether to offer Thomas wine or water. He hadn’t known the owners of the house then, but now one sat across from him, rambling about a Scotsman he’d met who only drank gin.

“They’ll revoke your citizenship for that, I told him,” Anthony said. 

Thomas caught Little’s eye and grinned. Anthony took that as a reflection on his story, and continued anew. He reminded Thomas of Fitzjames. He hoped they never had occasion to meet, or else the room would be very full indeed. 

Little smiled back. 

The townhouse was the same as Thomas remembered it, though now filled with the noise of a family. The girls greeted them on the porch, and tossed their arms around Thomas’s neck just after they released their uncle. Beatrice hailed for footmen to carry their bags, and Daphne took Thomas’s hand and said, “You promised you’d hear our compositions. We’ve been practicing for you.” 

They took him to the sitting room, sat behind the pianoforte, elbowing each other and arguing over who got to play first. Little followed eventually, flanked by Beatrice and Anthony. There was talk of scotch, of the dinner plan. 

Daphne pulled Thomas to sit between her and Elizabeth on the piano bench. They reached across him as they played, begging him to listen. 

“Edward, come with me to the kitchen,” Beatrice said. “I’d like a word with you.” 

Thomas was foolish enough to look, to catch Little’s eye as he left the room. He looked hesitant, uneasy. It was Beatrice’s gaze that halted him. She winked at Thomas, eyes sharp, knowing. 

Thomas knew he should have denied Little’s request for him to stay on at the lakehouse. Vacationing at a friend’s country home was one thing, but traveling together and returning to that same country home… That was something else entirely. Thomas didn’t have a word for it, but it was far more intimate than he’d anticipated. 

He couldn’t have said no, though. Not when Little looked so fearful at the idea of Thomas’s return to London. Not when he’d said it so plainly. 

_ Yes. Quite immensely.  _

Little hadn’t made excuses for the statement, and neither would Thomas. Little wanted him there. Whatever it was in Thomas’s presence that brought Little joy, he would supply it. 

That didn’t negate the issue of questions. Thomas wondered what explanation Little would offer to Beatrice. 

_ He’s helping me run the accounts.  _

_ I’ve hired him as my valet.  _

_ Poor old Thomas, he’s too weak and infirm to live on his own, too poor to afford living elsewhere. Charity, really, dear sister.  _

The idea burned hot and shameful in Thomas’s stomach. He hoped Little chose an explanation that left him at least a shred of dignity, but it wasn’t for him to decide. Whatever excuse Little saw fit for their relationship, it was not for Thomas to judge. 

It was his life. His family. 

* * *

“Still dragging that poor boy around with you, Ned?” Beatrice asked in the kitchen. She sounded like his mother. He wondered if she’d put him in timeout next. 

“I’m not dragging him anywhere,” Edward said, taking the glass of  _ madeira  _ she passed him. “If anything, it was Thomas who wanted to attend this infernal banquet.” 

“And is it he who begged to stay on at the lakehouse?” Beatrice’s eyebrow was sharp, inquisitive. 

“No, that was all me.” He couldn’t lie to her. She’d sniff it out before the words left his lips. “I’ve become rather accustomed to having him around.” 

“Ah,” Beatrice said, sipping her drink. “And when he is still around when you two are old and gray, what will you say then?”

“Whatever do you mean?” 

“Oh, don’t play coy with me. I can read you like a book, Edward. You’re fond of him. You won’t send him away, not now, not in a year from now. But you must think of some excuse. Mother will wonder why you’ve brought him to Paris when Martin is wed.” 

“Who said anything about taking him to Paris?” Edward shifted. He had thought of it, of course. “He’d hardly want to join. Being surrounded by dozens of Littles is not something any sane man wishes upon themselves.” 

“I’ve never pegged him for a sane man. He spends his time with you, afterall.” Edward snorted into his glass. “If I might make a suggestion, it’s not entirely unusual for a gentleman of your position to travel with a valet. Nor is it unusual for him to live with one.” 

“I haven’t need for a valet.” Edward’s neck prickled. He felt a shiver run through him that had nothing to do with the weather. She knew. She’d read it in him, in his face. 

“No, but you do have need for a suitable cover story if you don’t wish to be ostracized by all of polite society. Think on it, Ned. I wish only the best for you and dear Thomas.” 

Her voice was kind. There was truth in her words. Edward kept his gaze trained on the stone of the countertop and said nothing in return as she squeezed his hand and disappeared from the room. 

There was nothing untoward between himself and Jopson. He’d acted the perfect gentleman. Nothing had passed between them but fondness. Kinship and friendship, certainly, and love of a familial kind. But nothing more.

Edward had made sure of it. 

Yet, Beatrice was right. 

He wouldn’t turn Jopson away, and should Jopson not wish to leave of his own accord… Well, then, perhaps they had best agree on a cover story, at very least. The conversation would be difficult to broach, though.  _ By the by, Thomas, everyone in London thinks we’re buggering one another. Might I spread the news that you’re in my employ, to stop the rumors?  _

That would definitely send Jopson running for London. 

Edward left the kitchen eventually, wandering through the halls, stopping at a window to gaze out at the rain. 

Piano music filtered through the house from the sitting room. Along it came a familiar voice, lilted in song. Edward followed it, finding Jopson right where he knew he would, wedged between Edward’s nieces, moving one hand like a conductor as he sang a sea shanty. The girls laughed and played the accompaniment across the keys. 

Edward watched for a long moment, unable to speak, unable to look away. Jopson looked so very content there, enjoying time with Edward’s family. He looked as though he belonged there. He fit so seamlessly into Edward’s life, it was like he’d always been there. 

The song ended, the girls laughed, Jopson craned his head and met Edward’s gaze. He winked. 

Edward couldn’t do anything but grin. 

* * *

“I was never any good with these damned things,” Little said, standing with his back straight as Thomas straightened his collar. “Lost marks for it when I sat for my officer’s exam.” 

“There,” Thomas said, brushing nonexistent dust from Little’s shoulders. 

“Cheers,” Little said, placing his officer’s hat on his head. “Suppose we shouldn’t keep the carriage waiting. You look remarkable, by the way. Not a hair out of place. Though I rather think we should be matching.”

“The hat seems an unwieldy thing,” Thomas said, but he couldn’t help but beam at the compliment. “I rather prefer the steward’s uniform.” 

“Hm,” Little said. He gestured for Thomas to lead them to the door, and Thomas did. 

The carriage ride was short. Little didn’t speak, but he listened as Thomas chattered on about the watercolors the girls showed him that morning. It felt strange to step out of the carriage beside Little, to know they had readied for the event together, and when it ended, they would leave together. It made Thomas feel like a kept man. The thought made his heart flutter. 

Though Crozier had insisted it wouldn’t be an extravagant event, it seemed Fitzjames had persuaded him otherwise. The house was twinkling with glittering lights, and inside there was a swarm of waiters. Music played from somewhere within the house, a string band perhaps. 

From the moment they set foot inside they were beset by conversation. Hartnell met them somewhere near the door and greeted them both, pulling them into a conversation with Irving. Goodsir found them shortly after, and Collins and Little shook hands as old friends. Thomas fluttered easily between the groups, catching a word of greeting from Crozier one moment, then asking after Blanky’s sister the next. 

Little stayed at his side, following Thomas from conversation to conversation as though pulled by an invisible string. 

There were questions of their arrangement, of course, but none they couldn’t brush away with a laugh. 

“I hadn’t realized you two had taken up residence together,” Peglar said. 

“Not permanently,” Thomas said. “I’m only capitalizing on Little’s excellent lakeside cottage.” 

“Does the captain know you’ve stolen his steward, Little?” Blanky asked. 

“I haven’t stolen him, he comes of his own volition,” Edward said, nudging Thomas in the ribcage with his elbow. “Though, I do lock his door at night and force him to do all the washing up.” 

“Will you be staying long?” Hartnell asked Thomas. “And when you leave, is your room up for offer? I’d like to capitalize on Little’s cottage as well.” 

“Little loves guests,” Thomas said, trying to hide a smirk at the look Little shot him. “If you ask, I’m sure he’ll invite you to visit. But you shan’t have my room, I’m rather fond of it.” 

Thomas was enjoying himself immensely, but he noticed the cracks in Little’s façade beginning to show. Thomas lost him for a moment and glanced through the crowd to find him, only to spot Little loitering near the bar, wallowing in his anxiety with a decanter of good scotch. 

Thomas, having had a drink or two himself, was feeling a bit reckless from the alcohol and company. He weaved through the crowd to appear at Little’s side, touching his fingertip to Little’s hip to get his attention. 

“Did you bring your pipe? I could use a smoke.” 

Little startled at his touch and looked at Thomas in bewilderment, but nodded and patted his breast pocket. Thomas grabbed a drink for each of them and led the way to the balcony. It was blissfully empty. 

Little lit his pipe, then passed it to Thomas. Thomas puffed once, then hopped backward onto the balcony ledge. The movement startled Little, who immediately reached out both his hands to rest on Thomas’s thighs, as though to steady him. 

“The tobacco isn’t so bad you need to throw yourself over because of it,” Little grumbled.

“I’m perfectly balanced, see? Thomas said. 

Little huffed and dropped his hands. “You gave me a fright, is all.” 

Thomas laughed and puffed on the pipe. Little watched with amusement. 

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Little observed. There was a smile at the corner of his mouth. 

“Well, not all of us have mastered your art of being miserable in a crowd of friends.” 

Little frowned. “I’m not miserable.” 

“Oh, forgive me, I hadn’t realized people scowl so often when they’re enjoying themselves.

Little bit his lip and shook his head admonishingly. He pinched at Thomas’s elbow. “What’s gotten into you?” he asked. 

Thomas considered the question for a moment.  _ The scotch,  _ he thought. 

_ The tobacco.  _

_ You.  _

“It’s just nice to be here,” Thomas said instead. “It’s nice to be around familiar faces. People who understand, who have seen what we’ve seen and still know how to laugh in spite of it.” 

“Is that how you imagine it?” Little’s expression had gone ponderous. He was facing Thomas, one hand braced on the railing. They were close. Thomas could stretch out his leg and poke Little in the stomach with the toe of his shoe if he wanted. 

Little wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were fixed past his shoulder, to the city behind Thomas’s back. 

“I see it quite differently. Being around people who know how incompetent I was on the voyage gives me great displeasure. It’s easier with strangers, who have no reason to judge me.” 

Thomas lowered Edward’s pipe from his lips. He wanted Little to look at him. He wanted to pour all the admiration and affection he felt for Little into his own gaze. He hoped Little would see it there, and understand, for he certainly didn’t know how to put it into words and spill it from his lips. 

Thomas reached forward and tapped Little’s chin. His eyes shifted, and suddenly they were on Thomas’s, burning hot. Thomas dropped his hand. 

“That’s not how anyone thinks of you,” Thomas said softly. “You were an excellent Lieutenant, and you did your duty with honor and dignity. The things that were asked of you were a test of strength no man should have to endure, but endure them you did.” 

“I was a miserable Lieutenant.” Little sighed. “You were the best of us, and you had that dignity stripped from you the moment you set foot in your homeland. I won’t ever forgive them for not legitimizing your position. The captains signed it, that should have been enough for the Admiralty.” 

Thomas smiled. He hated the distraught expression on Little’s face. He wanted to make it disappear. 

Reaching forward with a steady hand, Thomas plucked Little’s hat from his head and placed it on his own. Little’s eyebrows shot up, a look of unbidden surprise on his face. 

“I sit here in a lieutenant’s hat,” Thomas said. “Smoking a lieutenant’s pipe. Considering we’ve both retired from the Discovery Service, is this not as close as I’ll ever come to having the title?” 

“You can have my coat and epaulettes if it’d please you,” Little said. His voice was low, honest. 

“I think it would be  _ you  _ pleased with that sight, not me,” Thomas teased. 

Little chewed his lip and watched Thomas. The expression on his face was plain as day. Adoration, nothing more, nothing less. Thomas knew that if he’d had one more glass of scotch and one less scruple to obey, he’d have kissed the expression clean off Little’s face. 

* * *

Watching Jopson sit on that ledge, wearing his hat, smoking his pipe, Edward knew quite plainly that he could never be anything less than in love with Thomas Jopson. It was folly to have thought he would have been satisfied with Jopson as a companion, a friend. It was more than folly, it was denial, it was cruelty. 

Someone as precious as Jopson deserved love of every kind, every day, for all of time. 

Edward opened his mouth to say as much, perhaps something as plainly honest as, “I’m in love with you,” but was interrupted by the balcony door and Fitzjames’s voice. 

“Dinner, lads,” he called. Edward spun on his heels and observed Fitzjames in the doorway, a smug expression on his face. “The hat looks rather good on you, Jopson.” 

“Does it?” Jopsons asked, hopping down from the balcony. “Little here was just about to tell me something similar.” 

_ How right you are,  _ Edward thought.  _ How terribly, unintentionally accurate.  _

Jopson handed him back the hat. They walked into the house together, and took seats at each other’s sides at dinner. Jopson talked and laughed along with everyone else. Edward watched him. He couldn’t help it, didn’t care if the others were staring. 

The crew all looked at Jopson with fondness. He had the love of all of them. They saw the same light and joy in him that Edward did. The idea made him feel hopelessly selfish and fiercely jealous, all at once. 

“Edward has a dog,” Jopson was saying to Hartnell, gesturing to Edward casually. “His name’s Lysander. Yes, yes, from the play, just the same.” 

_ Edward.  _ Had he meant to say it, or was it a slip of the tongue? Did it matter? 

“Oh yes, and the most wonderful house,” Jopson said. “You really must visit. Summer’s the best time for the country.” 

Their knees brushed under the table. Edward didn’t pull away. Jopson only pressed closer. 

When they left the party it was well past midnight. Edward wondered if the sun would rise soon. He hoped it wouldn’t. He didn’t want the night to end. 

As they waited for the carriage, Jopson swayed, whether from alcohol or exhaustion, Edward couldn’t say. He leaned against Edward, shoulder pressing into Edward’s chest. 

_ To Hell with it all,  _ Edward thought. He wrapped an arm around Jopson’s waist, steadying him, holding him close to his side. 

Jopson only pressed closer. 

When they climbed into the carriage, Jopson chose the seat beside Edward rather than opposite him per usual. He dropped his cheek to Edward’s shoulder. Edward rested his own cheek against the crown of Jopson’s head. 

Jopson pressed closer. 

_ How cruel it is to be the more loving one,  _ Edward thought. 

* * *

As much as Thomas enjoyed their adventure to London, he was glad when they boarded the train back to the lakehouse. His head ached the day after Crozier’s party and the noise he had previously welcomed from Beatrice’s townhouse now felt entirely too loud. The girls were sad to see him go, but Anthony clapped Elizabeth on the shoulder and said, “Let the man have a moment’s breath. You’ll see him again.” 

Thomas hoped that was true. Somehow, he believed it was. 

Little was quiet for the return journey. He seemed more inclined to scan the same page of his book a dozen times than to speak to Thomas. Thomas wondered if that meant he’d done something wrong. He’d done much wrong, in truth. 

The touching. Taking Little’s hat. Snoring on him in the carriage ride home. 

Thomas considered asking which it was that was the final straw, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer. Little hadn’t asked him to stay in London, hadn’t left him alone at the banquet, so he figured he couldn’t have messed up too badly. 

With every mile they put between themselves and London, the weight seemed to shed from Little’s shoulders. He finally put away his book and turned to look out the window, watching the landscape pass them by. 

They were nearing home. 

_ Home,  _ Thomas thought.  _ Little’s home. Yours is miles behind you.  _

Mrs. Hathaway greeted them upon their return. She bustled about with their bags, bringing them tea, asking of the journey. Thomas was happy to recall the night of the banquet, the joy he’d felt at seeing all his old crew members. 

Little was mostly quiet. He sat on the floor of the den, rubbing Lysander’s ears. 

Eventually, Mrs. Hathaway excused herself to attend to dinner. Left alone with Little, Thomas watched as he rolled a ball for Lysander to chase, a down turn to his lips. 

“Why so sullen?” Thomas asked, stretching out a leg from his spot on the sofa, nudging Little’s shin. 

Little glanced at him, then back to Lysander. 

“I suppose traveling takes it out of me,” Little said. “Funny to think I used to go on voyages for years, but now a simple trip to London has me feeling like I’ve one foot in the grave.” 

“An early night then?” Thomas asked. 

Little didn’t answer, just rubbed at Lysander’s ears. He turned suddenly, eyes on Thomas, and said, “Are you happy here, Thomas?” 

“Whatever has made you ask such a thing?” Thomas said with a laugh. 

“It’s something my sister said, while we were in London.” Little shifted to sit on his knees, facing Thomas. “She told me I wouldn’t ever have the strength to turn you out, and I’m afraid she’s right. So tell me now if you wish to leave, and I won’t hold it against you.” 

Thomas felt like he was drowning. There wasn’t enough air in his lungs. 

“I don’t wish to leave,” he said finally. He couldn’t think of being anything but honest, not when Little was looking at him like that, fearful, and yet hopeful, too. 

“Even on days when my mood is so foul I hardly say a word?” Little asked. 

“Yes, even on those days,” Jopson chuckled. “Come and sit with me, will you?” 

Little obeyed. He raised to his full height before settling beside Thomas on the sofa. They hadn’t used to sit so close. They hadn’t used to share the same sofa at all. 

Thomas scooted even closer. He angled his body so his back was against Little’s chest, his feet tucked onto the unoccupied cushion on the sofa. Little moved immediately, without a moment’s hesitation, wrapping his arms around Thomas’s chest and settling him more firmly against his chest. Their arms were tangled around each other, crossed over Thomas’s stomach. 

Little rested his chin on the crown of Thomas’s head. He was so warm, such a solid presence against Thomas’s back. 

The words were so clear on Thomas’s tongue. They tasted sweet there, but there was something bitter in them too. He wasn’t ready to say them just yet, for fear that Little couldn’t return them. 

_ I love you.  _

“I’m glad you’re happy here,” Little said. 

_ More than you can know.  _

“Are you happy, too?” Thomas asked. 

“ _ Yes _ ,” the word was breathed into his hair. “Very much so.” 

Thomas didn’t say the words he wished. He thought that Little did the same. He allowed himself to hope that the words Little hid behind his teeth were in matrimony with his own. 

* * *

Breakfast had never been Edward’s favorite time of the day. He’d never put much fanfare into it. Toast with his tea was as much as Edward ever required. He’d rather come to like the ritual of it, though, with Jopson here to share it with. He welcomed the little things he learned of Jopson over breakfast: He never took sugar with his tea. He buttered his toast first, then added jam. Sometimes he scooped a pallet of butter onto his plate, then added honey to it, mixing the two before slathering it on a scone. 

“My brother is getting married,” Edward said, watching Jopson over his letter. It was honey today. He must have been feeling sweet this morning. “In Paris.” 

“I thought I heard Beatrice mention something of the sort. When?” 

“Next summer,” Edward folded the letter and tucked it under his tea saucer. “I’ll be expected to make an appearance, of course. Paris is such a dull city, though. I much prefer the countryside. I was thinking, after the wedding, we could stop an extra week in Vienne before taking the Channel back to England.” 

Jopson nearly dropped his toast. 

“What?” 

“Well, I assumed you wanted to join me? You needn’t come for the wedding itself, it’s to be a disastrous affair, I’m sure. I’ve never known us Littles to get together without something turning on its head. But afterward, the two of us could steal a bit of France for ourselves.” 

“You want me to go with you?” Jopson gaped. “To  _ France _ ?” 

“You said you’ve never been. I much prefer Spain, myself, but you should get a chance to test it out for yourself.” 

“People will talk.” 

“I thought of that,” Edward frowned, “Beatrice suggested I, well… Don’t take offense to this, please, but what if we told people you were my valet? That would quite excuse you from attending the wedding itself, unless you absolutely wanted to join, I suppose. I’m sure I could think of some explanation.” 

“Your valet?” 

“No one would bat an eyelash should we travel together. You wouldn’t need to carry my bags or any of that, I wouldn’t ask that of you.” 

“Beatrice suggested this?” 

“Well, yes. She… I think she’s under the impression that we ourselves are wedded.” Edward laughed nervously. He didn’t meet Jopson’s eye, choosing instead to fiddle with the handle of his teacup. 

“And you didn’t correct her?” 

“I told her nothing untoward has passed between us,” he glanced at Jopson. “But you do understand how it must look to others, don’t you? I expect nothing from you, Thomas. Nothing you aren’t willing to give. But you must know how fondly I feel about you.” 

Edward watched Jopson smile into his teacup. 

“The fondness is reciprocated.” 

“Good,” Edward said, then laughed again. “That’s… Good.” 

The rest of the morning was spent in the garden. The trees were losing their leaves now and winter was setting in, but it was one of the final days of golden sunshine. They lounged in wicker chairs, and Thomas read from his book of fairytales again. 

The words left unspoken between them were heavy in Edward’s heart, but it was a pleasant weight. 

They would go to France in the summer. That was promise enough that Jopson wouldn’t leave him before then. The touching, the closeness, it hadn’t frightened him away. 

Jopson wanted to be with Edward, not just here, not just in the lakehouse, but wherever he was. 

“Ah,” Jopson said, raising his head from his book and showing him the page. There was a single raindrop on the page. “The sun has bid us farewell.” 

Edward glanced to the sky. It had grown dark with clouds. He hadn’t even noticed, warmed as he was by the brilliant rays of Thomas Jopson. 

“Inside then,” Edward said, standing and offering a hand to pull Jopson to his feet. “Just as well. I was hoping for a round of chess.” 

Jopson let himself be pulled to his feet, and they ducked into the house just as more drops began to pepper the cobblestone.

Edward lost, of course. He hadn’t been able to beat Jopson at chess yet. It was a strange type of loss, though. The more Edward lost, the more he felt he was winning in the long-run. He got to see that self-satisfied grin on Jopson’s face when he placed his queen and said,  _ checkmate.  _

Jopson leaned back in his chair and beneath the table he rested one socked foot against Edward’s. 

Edward smiled and wondered if it was true any longer, that he was the more loving one. Perhaps Jopson had usurped that throne, or perhaps it was always shared. 

Perhaps Edward had never worn that crown in the first place. 

* * *

Thomas woke to the sound of Little’s night terrors. Just as before he was on his feet and in the hallway before he could fully wake. The darkness of the hallway was familiar to him now, his feet carried him to the door and his hand reached for the doorknob without a single order from his mind. 

Little didn’t wake as he had before. Even as Thomas pushed open the door, there was a shout on his lips. It was a name. Thomas’s own. 

“It’s a dream,” Thomas said as he reached the side of the bed. He caught Little’s hands in his own. “It’s just a dream, please, wake up.” 

He did. He woke with a horrible gasp, sitting bolt upright and nearly colliding with Thomas. Little’s hands flexed, then gripped at Thomas’s fingers. 

“I dreamt of you,” Little choked. “I dreamt of you, dead on the shale. I couldn’t stop it--” 

Thomas was sitting on the edge of the bed now, his hip pressed against Little’s knee. He tried to steady Little’s hands, but they were reaching for him, fingers twisting in Thomas’s shirt. Thomas let them go where they willed, let Little feel his chest, his shoulder, his cheek. 

“I’m here,” Thomas said. 

“I couldn’t get to you--” 

“I’m alright. See? I’m breathing-- feel my pulse.” 

Thomas held Little’s hand against his neck, curling his fingers into Little’s. He held his palm against his pulse point, willed Little to feel the blood rushing in his neck, the warmth of his skin. Little froze at the touch. That was the opportunity Thomas needed. He climbed over Little’s legs into the center of the bed and coaxed Little to lay beside him. 

He came willingly, curling into Thomas’s touch, pressing forward until his cheek rested on Thomas’s chest. Thomas hoped he could hear the beating of his heart. 

“We made it back,” Thomas said. “We’re home.” 

“Home,” Little repeated. “ _ Home. _ ” 

Thomas carded his fingers through Edward’s hair. They laid wrapped around one another until Little’s breathing returned to an even pace, until he began to unwind himself from Thomas’s embrace. They turned to face one another, both lying on their sides. The words were on Thomas’s lips, a plea for Little to let him remain there, to let him sleep beside him and chase away the dreams, not just in this night but on all that should come after. 

Little didn’t give him the chance to speak. He caught Thomas’s hands in his own and said, “Thomas, you must know. You need to--” 

“I know,” Thomas said quickly. 

“I’ve been so dishonest--” 

“You haven’t. I know.” 

“The way I feel for you is--” 

“I  _ know _ .” Thomas surged forward, pressing a kiss to Little’s brow, his cheekbone, the tip of his nose. “I know. I feel it, too.” 

Little broke the union of their hands to reach for Thomas’s face. He held it between both his palms and kissed Thomas squarely on the mouth. It was warm and soft, lingering, validating all that had come before, and promising all Thomas hoped would come to pass. 

“I love you,” Little whispered. Thomas tasted the words on his own mouth, Little’s breath warm on his lips. “I love you so dearly.” 

“And I you,” Thomas said, before marrying their mouths once more. 

It didn’t matter anymore whether Thomas was the more loving one. Perhaps he never had been. Perhaps it had been an impossible task to ask of the two of them, that either should love the other more.

He should have known better from the moment Little locked eyes on him at that crowded Admiralty banquet, medal of valour gleaming on his chest. “There are people in my life I need to consult with before making a decision,” he’d said then. 

It had been Thomas, it had always been Thomas. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! Or is it...? If you want to see more of this story please let me know! I'd like to do a follow-up piece of these idiot boys living in blissful harmony in the lakehouse. Do they ever go to Paris? Does Little ever meet Jopson's family? 
> 
> If you have anything you'd like to see in a sequel, let me know in the comments! Or drop me a line on tumblr @ red-0ak-tree.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](https://red-0ak-tree.tumblr.com/)


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